


The Worst of the Beasts

by MidnightShadeux



Category: Dracula (TV 2020)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Blood and Gore, F/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-01-10
Updated: 2020-04-02
Packaged: 2021-02-27 14:28:07
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 5
Words: 29,282
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22198597
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MidnightShadeux/pseuds/MidnightShadeux
Summary: “It’s a question of who you’d rather have tear you apart, I suppose.”Sister Clara looked between the wolves tearing her sisters to pieces and the monster sitting in the chair watching them with glee in his eyes.Well, if he was giving her a choice...
Relationships: Count Dracula/OC
Comments: 137
Kudos: 332





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Please be nice to me. This is the first fic I'm posting since I was like 11 years old and I'm super nervous about it, but I love this show so much I had to write something.

_She was going to die._

Clara knew this to be true as she watched the man in front of them retreat.

If he was a man. Sister Agatha hadn’t specified what exactly they were training to fight. Or maybe she had and Clara just hadn’t been paying attention; she’d been a little distracted by the thought that whittling stakes to kill a supernatural force wasn’t what she’d expected when she’d signed up to the convent.

She gripped her cross tightly and advanced forward with the rest of her sisters. In the back of her mind she knew it would do no good. It may have seemed like they were winning, that they were overpowering him and forcing him into submission with their treasured crucifixes, but the smirk on his face as he grabbed a chair and pulled it into the middle of the room let her know it was a tactical retreat.

She wondered if the others could see that.

He sat down with a grace only an aristocrat possessed. A count, Clara remembered Agatha had told them. She had wondered if that was true. She had no reason to believe it wasn’t, but titles had power and Clara wouldn’t have been surprised if the man was using the title simply to make his life easier. Watching him now, though, the way he moved and held himself left little doubt in her mind.

She swallowed nervously as his eyes skimmed over their faces whilst he lounged in his chair as if he hadn’t just decapitated the Mother Superior. They didn’t pause on her, skittered over her as they did everyone else. She realised he wasn’t focusing on any of them, not registering their faces or their positions; all he was doing was inhaling their fear and relishing in it.

Clara wasn’t a person to him, just a sack of blood that he could feed on or kill. They all were.

The idea made her furious. Clara was terrified, yes, and the thought of the unbearable pain she was likely to die in made her want to cry, but if he was going to kill her he could at least have the good grace to acknowledge her. To not treat her as if she was nothing. She’d had enough of that throughout her life, she didn’t need it in her death as well.

It strengthened her resolve. She was going to die, but she was not going to go down without a fight.

He was talking about their crucifixes and their effectiveness but Clara wasn’t listening. She kept her eyes flicking between his mouth and his hands. She knew those were his most dangerous weapons; his teeth would rip her to shreds and his hands tear her apart without a struggle.

“Controlling wolves is just so much more fun.”

A loud howl broke Clara’s concentration and she watched in horror as a large black wolf tackled Sister Judith to the ground and ripped out her throat before it started feasting on her stomach.

The convent erupted into screams, the cries echoing off the cavernous walls and high ceilings. Clara jerked back as an entire pack of wolves – perhaps multiple packs - came scampering into the room and targeted her fleeing sisters. Count Dracula’s chuckle reverberated around her and was absorbed into their screams.

“It’s a question of who you’d rather have tear you apart, I suppose.”

Clara had grown up in the mountains. She knew how to deal with normal wolves, but wolves controlled by a vampire may be different. Nevertheless, she slowly backed herself into a shadowed wall to draw as little attention as possible to herself. Her eyes darted to the exit and she crept towards it.

But the shrieks of fear and pain became louder. A feeling of absolute dread washed over her and Clara closed her eyes as she realised that was because they weren’t all coming from that room. They were coming from outside as well.

All her sisters, the entire convent, were being massacred. The only part left of them would be their lifeless bodies and a river of blood flowing across the grounds.

A growl sounded from somewhere close in front of her and Clara opened her eyes to find bright amber ones staring back at her. Without missing a beat, she drew herself up to her full height and scowled as the grey wolf stalked towards her.

Clara again flashed a glance towards the door. She knew there was no way she’d make it before the wolf caught her; it was faster than her and wolves loved to chase fleeing prey. Plus, she didn’t know where or even how many wolves were waiting out there for her.

Instead Clara’s eyes fell on the Count. He still wasn’t paying attention to her, focused entirely on the carnage in front of him and occasionally pausing to enjoy the sounds of ripping flesh from behind him. His cruel laughter and amused expression showed how much he was enjoying himself and the total destruction he was causing, the numerous deaths bringing him delight.

Clara looked at the steadily approaching wolf and back again.

She wouldn’t reach the door, but she could reach him.

Clara took a deep breath and furrowed her brow in concentration. She unclasped her necklace and tightened it as much as possible, bringing the dangling crucifix to the base of her throat.

Then she ran.

Clara tried not to look at her sisters or the wolves as she sprinted across the room. Yet it was impossible for the copper smell of their blood not to infiltrate her senses or to ignore their agonised wails, and she could feel the snap of the wolves’ teeth at her heels, their breath on the backs of her legs.

Dracula barely had time to turn his head and register her approach before she flung herself at him and scrambled into his lap.

“Oh, hello,” he greeted, instinctively gripping onto Clara’s hips, “And who might you be?”

Clara wasn’t listening. She glanced over her shoulder to see all wolves not preoccupied with a meal surrounding them in a circle and snarling. They didn’t step any closer though and that’s what she’d been hoping for. She watched as one by one they turned and trotted back to terrorising her sisters.

“Er, excuse me. I asked you a question.” He bounced his legs a little, jostling her and almost unseating her. If it wasn’t for his hands on her hips keeping her steady she would’ve tumbled to the floor and been wolf-meat.

Clara turned and gave him what he wanted: her attention.

Curious eyes met hers and he smiled.

“Your name, sweetheart. What is your name? Who are you?”

Clara glared at him and kept her mouth firmly shut.

“Oh, come on,” he chuckled, “What harm could telling me your name do?”

Clara thought about it. She wasn’t quite sure what the answer was. Would it do harm? Part of her didn’t want this creature knowing who she was and addressing her by name. Names were personal and she didn’t want this _th_ _ing_ being that close to her or whispering her name sweetly as she died. On the other hand, hadn’t she already thought being acknowledged by him was better than being nothing? If she was going to die, wouldn’t it be better that she went as herself rather than a nameless nun?

“Sister Clara,” she spat. ~~~~

He hummed happily at her compliance and stroked her hips, “Hello, Clara. I’m Count Dracula.”

Clara couldn’t tell if he was being polite or patronising. Instead of replying she looked pointedly down at his hands on her hips and raised an eyebrow.

He laughed and stopped caressing her but didn’t remove his hands.

“May I ask, Sister Clara, why you are sitting in my lap?”

When Clara didn’t answer (like hell she was going to give him anything when he was having her sisters butchered. They were still crying out) he bounced his legs again. She grabbed hold of his shoulders to stop herself from flying off and glowered at him. Her only response was an encouraging smile.

_Fine._

“Wolves respond to an alpha,” she explained grudgingly, “I’m assuming you’re their alpha based on their behaviour and the chance of them attacking you is slim. The closer I am to you, the greater the chance they will leave me be.”

“And close you are,” he agreed, “Of course, I’m not complaining.”

Dracula thrust his hips upwards once and smirked at her discomfort.

“A young nun straddling a man she saw naked not half an hour ago in front of the rest of her congregation and the Mother Superior’s…intense gaze during prayer and in full sight of the alter. Sounds like sin to me.”

Clara looked towards the alter behind him before quickly returning her focus to his face when she saw what looked like the remains of Sister Margaret being digested by four wolves.

She swallowed and he followed the movement with his eyes before smiling knowingly at her. 

“I wasn’t looking. Earlier. I wasn’t looking at your…,” she flinched, “At you.”

“Of course you weren’t.” 

Clara scowled at him and his smug face again. If God was going to judge her for straddling a vampire to save herself, she didn’t want to be in Heaven with him.

Clara knew that was possibly the wrong attitude to take and she should be dying for her faith with her sisters. Except they weren’t dying for their faith, they were dying because someone had invited a homicidal lunatic into their house. She wondered who would do such a thing. Certainly not any of her sisters in the room.

Clara kept her focus on his face, not looking behind her or behind him, or even to the sides; totally and completely focused on him. He was likely enjoying it, thinking it was because he was so interesting, but in reality she didn’t want to see or hear what was left of her sisters. She didn’t think she could stomach the sight of all the blood nor the judgemental eyes if any were still able to comprehend Clara’s position. She knew she would not be able to stand one of them reaching for her, or the sounds of them all choking on their own blood or being eaten alive. It was best if she blocked it out, and keeping her attention solely on the Count did that.

What she didn’t understand was why the Count’s focus was entirely on _her_ face rather than observing the chaos he’d created as he had been before. He was scrutinising her intensely as if she was a puzzle and seemed to find more entertainment there over the mutilation of nuns.

“You know,” he said conversationally, still not removing his gaze, “You’re no safer with me than with the wolves.”

“Boo!” He suddenly lurched forward, his eyes turning red and his mouth opening wide to show shark-like teeth as he went for Clara’s neck.

Clara jolted back a little but managed to remain where she was.

The Count on the other hand hissed as if in pain and wrenched himself away. He kept his head turned from her, looking anywhere but in her direction as though repulsed by her.

Clara stared at him. His face was hidden from her but she wanted to see.

Clara grabbed hold of his chin tightly and forced his head to face her. His continuous hisses soon turned to growls and snarls – noises more suited to an animal then a man - as he tried to pull away but she dug her nails into his skin to hold him still. ~~~~

The eyes were what drew her attention the most. She could see no white part except when his eyes flickered from side to side and it was right around the edges. What had been white had turned red, the veins very evident, so they looked bloodshot. His pupils were blown too, to the extent she could see only the slightest hint of brown. They were mesmerising to look at and, despite the unnatural condition, she felt she could stare at them all day.

The Count seemed to have calmed down. He let her turn his face from side to side, relaxed in her hold and silent as she explored, but watched her curiously.

Clara’s eyes slowly roamed down, flickering across his features as they did. The crinkles around his eyes – laughter lines -, the jut of his nose, the stray hair hanging down rebelliously into his face, they were all very human and normal and made him look like any other man you’d see in the street.

What wasn’t human and normal was his mouth.

When Clara’s gaze dropped to them the Count’s lips twitched a little. Clara frowned and opened her own mouth a little wider than natural and was surprised when the man obliged her silent request by smiling widely and displaying his teeth. She tilted her head as she considered them and the jagged edges. They weren’t human, just slightly too sharp and pointy, but not far from it. She found herself wanting to reach forwards and touch to see how sharp they were.

_No, Clara. You cannot stick your hand in a vampire’s mouth._

The voice in her head, the one which always knew what was logical and right and entirely responsible for her self-preservation, warned her this was dangerous and asking for trouble. No matter how strong the urge, it was an idiotic move that she knew better than to follow through on.

Clara did know better, but she did it anyway.

Slowly, she eased the pressure of her hand off his chin, not that the grip was tight enough to be restrictive anymore. When the Count didn’t make to lunge at her again and stayed deathly still, she removed her hand completely and carefully reached out. Her hand trembled as her thumb entered his mouth and she hesitated for a moment, knowing she should pull away. She ploughed on though and gently ran her thumb along the top of his teeth and then rested it at the point of one.

She put no pressure on it, but the sharp tooth immediately pierced through Clara’s skin and whatever calmness the Count had restored flew away. As soon as the droplet of blood hit his tongue he clamped his mouth down and sucked fiercely. Clara could feel him dragging her blood out and she squeaked in alarm. She tried to tug her thumb away but he just clamped down harder and brought a hand up to hold her wrist in place.

Clara panicked and slapped him in the face.

Dracula made a sound of surprise and was startled enough that he released her hand. She snatched it away from him quickly. She noticed it was still bleeding and the vampire was staring at the droplet beading on her skin, so slowly she raised it to her own mouth and sucked.

Dracula followed her movements with his eyes and his pupils blew even wider when he saw her sucking the blood off her own thumb.

When Clara believed it had stopped bleeding she removed it and they watched each other silently. After a few moments, Dracula blinked rapidly a couple of times and brought a hand up to his cheek, rubbing it soothingly.

“I’m not entirely sure I deserved that.”

Clara grimaced. In a way he was right. She knew he was a vampire and he drank blood and she had thought it a good idea to stick her hand in his mouth to see what happened. It was like placing meat in front of a lion and expecting it not to eat.

“Sorry,” she said. He raised an eyebrow in surprise. “Though to be fair, you have murdered my friends, a slap is the least you deserve.”

Dracula smirked, “Fair enough. I admit you have a point.”

There were silent for a while. Clara didn’t know what to do and was only now realising that she hadn’t thought her rushed plan through. Yes, getting physically close to the Count had stopped the wolves but now she was trapped by another monster. How exactly was she going to get out of this? The Count wasn’t like the wolves: he was intelligent and in complete control. She couldn’t predict his behaviour or the decisions he’d make. She’d essentially trapped herself with Dracula being the one responsible for her getting out.

“Your brother was wrong, by the way.”

She startled and her eyes widened. There was no way Dracula could know what Frederick had said to her all those years ago, the entire reason she was in this convent. But…he’d known Sister Agatha’s real name after tasting her blood. Did he do something similar to her?

He smiled at her, “Blood is lives. And from what little I tasted of yours, it’s been eventful.”

Clara watched as gradually Dracula’s eyes melted back into their usual brown and his teeth lost their edge. Instead of relaxing, she straightened up rigidly. She forced herself to look behind him at Sister Margaret’s decimated remains. This was a wolf in sheep’s clothing, a beast pretending to be a man, the Devil appearing as a human. She’d do well to remember that.

The Count sensed the change in her and grinned, “Ah, there she is. Self-preservation back, I see. Instincts kicking in. I was worried for a moment I’d lost my touch. Wouldn’t want anyone to think I’m growing soft in my old age.”

Clara eyed him suspiciously. To her it looked like the Count was pulling his cloak of mystery and fear back around him, getting the situation back under his control (although it had never left) and preparing his next attack. She didn’t know who else he could attack. The screaming had stopped.

The only one left was Clara.

Dracula tapped her on her sternum, just below where her crucifix fell, “You’re a clever girl, aren’t you?”

Clara rose up on her knees a little, bringing the crucifix into his line of sight and watching him flinch and hiss again.

This time _she_ smirked at _his_ discomfort.

“Yes, a very clever girl. Most of your skin is blocked by your attire, and I can’t rip through it or remove it because your delightful jewellery is placed just so.” He slid his fingers from her sternum up slightly and paused between her breasts - the closest he could get to the crucifix without touching it. “I could always unclasp it.”

“Oh, can you touch the chain?” Clara asked.

Dracula watched her carefully and with a start Clara realised he didn’t know. ~~~~

“So where do we go from here, dear Clara?” he said instead of answering, “You cannot stay seated in my lap forever.” He changed the position of his hand so instead of two fingers resting between her breasts, his entire palm was flattened against her chest. He also tightened his hold around her waist so she was pulled flush against him. “No matter how pleasant it is.”

Clara didn’t know. That wasn’t her decision.

“Will you let me go?”

Dracula sighed, “Oh, and there I was starting to think you were interesting. Nobody before has jumped on me to _avoid_ death but now you’re singing the same tune they all do. ‘Please let me go’, ‘don’t kill me’, ‘I’ll give you anything you want if you let me live.’ It became tiresome a long time ago.”

“Well, I’m certainly not going to give you anything you want,” Clara snapped at him.

“Not even if I let you go?”

“You won’t.”

“But what if I do?”

“You _won’t._ From my experience, as soon as a person gets what they want they break whatever promise they’ve made. There’s no benefit for them to keep their word.”

He scrutinised her for a second. She didn’t break eye contact.

“What if I’m different?”

Clara snorted, “You may be a vampire and thus eat differently, but you are still a person. When it comes down to it, everyone has the same desires.”

“Blood, sex, control, an abundance of people to sample?”

“Food, intimacy, power, company.”

The Count hummed thoughtfully, “You know, Sister Clara, I think you might understand me better than most. And understand human nature in general. That’s quite refreshing.”

“Great. I’m refreshing. Now that we’ve established that, will you let me go or not?”

“No, I don’t think so.”

Clara breathed out slowly. Dracula could feel the movement against his chest where she was still pressed, but that didn’t really matter to her anymore.

_She was going to die._

Clara had known that from the start. She’d planted herself on the Count in the vain hope of a painless death, unlike her sisters, and the determination to go down fighting. She hadn’t exactly fought Dracula, but she was defiant enough that it prolonged her life. That counted for something.

“Well then. You said you weren’t unreasonable; that we had a choice about which beast ripped us apart.” Clara shrugged. “This is my choice.”

The Count raised his eyebrows in surprise, “You’d let me drain the life out of you? You would sit here comfortably, remove your habit,” he ran his fingers over the fabric covering the right side of her neck, “untie your crucifix and fling it to the ground? Then _allow_ me to bite into your neck and suck you dry?”

Clara huffed, “I’m going to assume you ‘sucking me dry’ is less painful than having my limbs torn off by hungry hounds.”

“Bold assumption.”

She didn’t say anything and waited for him to make his decision.

“I could still have the wolves rip you to pieces,” the Count reminded her. The wolves howled in agreement, each one jumping up from where they’d settled for their meal and prowling towards them. Clara tightened her thighs around Dracula’s legs. “I could just-”

He stood abruptly and Clara shrieked as she fell backwards. She managed to wrap her legs around Dracula’s waist to stop herself falling completely but hung upside down almost vertically with nothing to hold onto to pull herself up.

The wolves snapped at her face but didn’t go for the kill. Distantly, Clara wondered if that was because she was too close to their master or because Dracula wouldn’t let them.

The vampire had grabbed her hips and lower back in a firm hold to stop her falling and smashing her head. Clara couldn’t see his face from where she was hanging, but he didn’t react and stayed completely still whilst she raised her hands to cover her face and screamed as the wolves snarled and gnashed their teeth at her.

Her crucifix dangled in front of her face, luckily not falling to the floor to be trampled on by the wolves but leaving her throat exposed. The Count noticed immediately and chuckled darkly. He removed the hand supporting Clara’s back and chuckled again as she screamed in terror at dropping another inch towards the floor and snapping mouths. Surprisingly she didn’t hit the ground, the Count’s one hand on her hip being strong – unnaturally strong - enough to stop her.

Clara closed her eyes in fear and tried to keep the tears at bay. She felt as Dracula’s free hand slid up her body to her now vulnerable throat and encircled it. He squeezed making her cough.

“It would be so easy,” he said coldly.

They stayed in that position for several long minutes that felt like an age to Clara; the wolves lunging and Dracula letting them, and the vampire sporadically tightening and loosening his hold on her throat.

Eventually, he barked loudly at the pack and they all scattered back with whimpers to the far corners of the room.

With little effort, Dracula flipped Clara back up the right way and returned them to their previous position in the chair; him casual and relaxed, her straddling his hips. This time she wrapped her arms around his neck to help keep her steady and, despite her mind reminding her that this man was dangerous, safe.

“Oh, look at you,” he said with false sympathy. He rested a gentle hand on Clara’s face and wiped a tear from her cheek, “You’re trembling like a leaf.”

She was indeed shaking uncontrollably, and consequently tightened her hold on him in the hope it would still the shivers and ground her. It didn’t work and her breath came out in short gasps.

“Your heart is almost beating out of your chest it’s pounding so hard.” The Count raised two fingers to rest over Clara’s heart, leant forwards to rest his forehead against hers and closed his eyes. After a moment he began thrumming a beat over her chest and she realised it was matching her heartbeat.

“Breathe with me,” he whispered.

She obliged and slowly matched the way his chest rose and fell and his inhales and exhales. It was an odd pattern and uneven, as if he wasn’t used to it and was forcing himself to do it. If he was undead, as he had proclaimed, it was possible he was but Clara couldn’t understand why he’d do that for her; to go against what he normally did and put himself out for a nun he was going to kill.

When she’d calmed down and her breathing evened out, he pulled back and watched her face carefully.

“I’ve never had consent before,” he said softly.

Clara smiled sadly, “I wonder why.”

He huffed a quiet laugh although it didn’t have the same feeling to it as before.

“You know, you really are quite beautiful,” he observed as he swiped another stray tear from her face, “I admire that: youth and beauty. Based on what I can see, you possess both of those. It’s such a shame to see it go to waste.”

“I think we’ve established that even if I gave you everything you wanted, you won’t let me live,” Clara said.

“That we did.”

“Just…do one thing for me?” Clara said. She hated herself a little for sounding so weak and scared. “Make it as painless and as quick as possible. I don’t want it to hurt.”

The Count stared at her with something strange and new stirring in those intense brown eyes. He simply nodded.

Clara sighed and nodded back, knowing what was to happen and what she must do. She slowly reached up and behind her neck and with a shaky hand unclasped her necklace. The Count leaned away cautiously as she brought the crucifix round and held it in her palm for a moment before looking him dead in the eyes and throwing it somewhere to her right. He relaxed and as she reached up to remove her wimple, covered her hand with his to stop her.

“Allow me.”

The hands that earlier in the night she had seen tear out the skin of a wolf were surprisingly tender when they reached around the side of her headpiece and unwrapped it. First, he removed the piece covering her neck and chest, leaving her bare throat exposed to his eyes. Then he followed with the shoulder covering, the headpiece and finally the cap. Once everything was removed, Clara’s brunette ringlets fell over her shoulders.

His gaze roamed over the areas of her face and body that had previously been hidden to him. ~~~~

“Beautiful,” was all he said.

Wordlessly, Clara scooped her hair into one long ponytail and moved it to one side, giving him access to her long bare neck.

The Count exhaled sharply as his eyes were drawn to it and before Clara knew what was happening he’d buried his face in her neck. He closed his eyes and inhaled deeply, something he didn’t need to do but seemed to enjoy anyway, before licking a long line from the base of her throat to her ear. Clara reached up and stroked his hair, holding his head in place in encouragement.

The Count whined hungrily but to her surprise pulled back again. His eyes had returned to their mesmerising red and his teeth elongated as he watched her. He reached up and ran his fingers through her long hair, making her shiver, before grasping the back of her neck and pulling her into a kiss.

Clara had never been kissed before, but the moment her lips met his her head became fuzzy and her entire focus engaged on the kiss. She pushed forward and opened her mouth, letting the Count’s tongue lick inside. She wondered if he could still taste the blood from earlier but quickly decided she didn’t care, the hand resting on her hip and the tongue doing miracles in her mouth distracting her. The Count kissed her with vigour and an intensity she didn’t think she could match, and then she couldn’t think at all. Nothing registered but the sensations of his body touching hers, his hands and mouth everywhere, and the feeling of contentment and warmth pooled low in her stomach.

Clara felt the loss when he pulled away but couldn’t work up the energy to chase after him. Her mind was foggy and unwilling to string a sentence together, let alone command her body to move.

The Count cupped her face in his hands, “You know, something your fellow nun may have failed to discover in her little investigations is the fact that a vampire’s kiss acts as an opioid. It can send the victim into a dream state to make them compliant and relaxed enough that they don’t realise they are being bitten until it’s too late, perhaps not even then.”

She could hear his words but not respond, her mind shutting down.

He stroked a thumb over her cheek, “You don’t seem to need the dream state to be compliant, but I’m going to send you there anyway to rest.”

_What?_

“I have to dash off to quickly skin a corpse and deal with your dear Sister Agatha and her new pet, but I’ll be back for you.”

He picked her up in his arms as if Clara weighed nothing and gently laid her down on the floor. A low growl had the pack of wolves streaking from the room and presumably the convent grounds completely.

“I’m heading to England in a few days. I will take you with me. It would be a crime to leave someone with beauty, intelligence, and spirit all in one package to bleed out on a convent floor within seconds without proper exploration of the taste. One should never rush a nun.”

As his footsteps became distant and she was pulled further and further into sleep, she wondered if he’d let her live because she’d given him all that he’d wanted after all.

And if being torn apart by wolves would’ve been the lesser of two evils.


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Clara is not happy with her current situation

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I was just going to leave this as a standalone due to my horrible habit of never finishing fics and not wanting to disappoint anyone, but I received such lovely comments it inspired me to write more. 
> 
> This chapter was only supposed to be a short less-than-1000-words section in a chapter dedicated to the Demeter. It spiraled out of control into this mess.
> 
> Thanks to all the people who commented on the first chapter. Seriously, this would never have been completed without you urging me on.

Clara came to consciousness slowly.

She didn’t have the energy to open her eyes to find out where she was and had no idea how she arrived there. Her mind was foggy, still half asleep, and she felt the same way she always did after waking up from an incredibly deep sleep or vivid dream. Confused. Unable to separate what was real and what was a dream. No memory of what had happened before she slept.

Wherever she was she was lying on something soft.

Clara could smell saltwater – the sea – and a variety of other odours all mixing together so she could only distinguish a few: livestock, fire, rotting vegetables, and mould. There were other, more powerful smells she’d never encountered before too. Clara could hear the squawking of seabirds nearby and the clattering of carts and trollies over stone. There was the low rumble of people talking, although she couldn’t work out what they were saying as the voices were muffled by something. The ringing of bells and occasional yelling of men added to what amounted to a cacophony of noise.

_A port?_

Clara groggily opened her eyes and stared up at timber beams. She appeared to be lying on some sort of makeshift bed. ~~~~

A slight movement to her right had Clara turning her head to find the grinning face of Count Dracula centimetres from her own.

“Hello.”

She screamed and punched him in the face.

The Count groaned and massaged his nose tentatively. “What is it with you and hitting me? I’d appreciate it if you stopped.”

Clara scrambled back from him as fast as she could, the images of the past slamming into her all at once, one horrific bloody scene after the other.

_Screaming. Howling. Hissing. Blood. Teeth. Terror. Death._

_Kiss._

A sudden yank on her arm brought her to an abrupt halt and Clara found she couldn’t move any further. Her eyes fell on her right arm and, more specifically, the shackle clasped tightly around it. A chain link secured it to the stone walls.

Clara tugged as hard as she could, trying to pull free. The metal cut into her wrist painfully and brought tears to her eyes but still she strained to escape. She felt like her arm was being ripped from its socket and, just as she’d known back at the convent that attempts to overpower the vampire would be fruitless, she knew this was a fool’s mission. No matter which way she twisted, how vigorously she wrenched, the chain didn’t budge.

The Count tutted at her and strode closer, “Stop that. You’ll hurt yourself. We don’t want you to damage that pretty package too early, do we.”

Clara glared up at him as he towered over her and noticed, with no small amount of glee, a slight red mark on the bridge of his nose where her fist had connected with it.

“Did I break it?” her voice trembled, “I hope I broke it.”

Dracula chuckled as he regarded her with a smirk, “Oh, you’re going to have to pack a bit more of a punch if you want to break me, darling.”

Clara was going to take that as a challenge.

He saw the quiet defiance in her eyes and sighed, falling gracefully onto the little bed beside her. She leaned away from him but there really wasn’t anywhere for her to go.

The Count stared straight ahead of him as he gently picked up her wrist and loosened the shackle the slightest bit. He started caressing her wrist, rubbing soothing circles over the little marks the metal had scratched into her skin. Clara hated having him so close to her, acting so sweetly. Or maybe she didn’t, and that’s what she hated.

“Why must you resist me so? I do love a good chase, don’t get me wrong, but your consent was terribly fascinating.”

Clara stopped listening. She let the soft rumble of his voice wash over her and fade into the background and instead studied the now slightly looser shackle carefully.

Watching the Count’s thumb slip under the metal to stroke the sensitive skin made her wonder. Maybe she couldn’t pull the chain from the wall, but perhaps it was now loose enough for her wrist to slip free? If a grown man’s fingers could fit under it, surely hers could too to pry it up? She knew if she managed to succeed with Dracula there she wouldn’t get far; he was faster and stronger than her, no competition, and he’d probably decide she was more trouble than she was worth. She’d have to be patient and wait until he left before attempting it, but there was no way to know when that was or if he’d leave at all.

“Do I have to kiss you again?”

“What?” That startled Clara back into reality.

The Count was watching her with amusement. “Well, you’re clearly not listening to a word I’m saying. Am I that dull? That staring at a cold piece of metal is more interesting than I am? Perhaps a kiss would liven you up a bit.”

Clara scowled “I’m sorry, being kidnapped doesn’t really make me the most talkative person.”

“Touché, my dear.”

Dracula dropped her hand onto the bed and she shuffled away from him, putting as much space between them as humanly possible. A quick glance around the room revealed a glazed over window showing nothing but shadows moving busily behind it and next to it a small wooden door which was almost certainly locked. No other exits, no other windows, and the only other things in the room seemed to be several crates piled sporadically around the area. So no weapons either. Not that they’d work on a vampire.

A sudden draught breezed under the door and made her shiver as it hit her skin. She wrapped her arms around herself to keep warm and to her surprise found her arms bare. She looked down.

“Did you undress me?” Clara asked, incredulously. Her habit, her tunic, her underskirts, and most of her other layers of clothing had all been removed. All she was left in were her undergarments. She wrapped her arms around herself tighter, attempting to hide her body from his gaze.

“Well I couldn’t really leave you the way you were, could I?” Dracula said like she was an imbecile, “What if some nosy scoundrel walked in when I was away? An unconscious nun in a disused storage hut? That’s not questionable at all.”

“And an unconscious half-naked woman isn’t?!”

He smirked slowly and looked her up and down, “Well. A half-naked woman could be here for any number of reasons. Homelessness. Drunkenness. Prostitution. Perhaps you have a secret fondness for sailors.”

Clara screwed her nose up in disgust, “Pig.”

“Oh, don’t be like that.” He pouted. “I left your corset and chemise on. I am a gentleman.”

Clara looked him dead in the eye and waved her shackled wrist pointedly.

Dracula purposefully ignored her.

“Still,” he said, tilting his head to the side and considering her body with more intensity than she was comfortable with, “it was a lovely view.”

Before Clara had a chance to react, the Count had pressed her down and pinned her to the bed by her wrists. He crawled between her legs and lay on top of her, the soft fabric of his cloak rubbing against her smooth skin in a way that wasn’t entirely unpleasant. Clara started shaking when she realised Dracula had her trapped and she could not move a single muscle; he had her completely restrained and vulnerable.

Dracula swept a finger along the top edge of her corset gently. Clara’s breath quickened as he leaned down and ran his nose along the length of her neck, inhaling as he did, before coming to a stop just below her ear and pressing his lips to the tender spot there.

“You have no idea,” he whispered against her skin, “how tempting it is to just rip out your throat and leave you here.”

Clara exhaled sharply. Dracula ran his free hand up the outside of her leg lightly, his fingers barely brushing the garment covering it, as he moved his face to hover over hers. They were so close her chest was pressed into his and his lips millimetres from her own; all she’d have to do was tilt her chin up slightly and they’d meet. As she stared up at him with wide, terrified eyes she noticed his had transformed into the mesmerising red that she’d come to associate with his bloodlust and knew that his teeth would have lengthened as well.

She opened her mouth, whether to say something or in invitation she didn’t know.

“Don’t worry,” Dracula said, his voice low and husky, “I won’t take you without your permission. I’m not that sort of monster.”

He leaned down further as if for a kiss and Clara opened her mouth a little wider. He paused just as they were about to meet, hovering over her lips as she gasped little breaths that he would undoubtedly be able to feel enter his slightly parted lips.

The Count huffed out a single laugh and pulled back.

Clara wasn’t sure if she was disappointed, angry, or relieved.

It should’ve been relieved. Firstly, she was a nun; she had pledged her life to God, and she was supposed to have given up worldly pleasures and temptation. That included bodily pleasures and, though she’s never admit it out loud, kissing the Count had been very pleasurable indeed. By drawing away, he was removing the opportunity for her to break her vow. More importantly, this beast had knocked her out, kidnapped her, restrained her, massacred the rest of the convent – her family – in front of her, and was the devil incarnate. He feasted off innocent people, killing them with no remorse and sometimes just for fun. He was a true monster. She really shouldn’t want him to kiss her.

_Alas…_

Clara pushed any feelings of disappointment that were threatening to rise to the surface down. She watched as the Count hopped off the bed and stalked over to one of the crates, back turned to her and completely unfazed by what had happened. He shrugged his cloak off as he walked and then folded it before resting it carefully on top of the crate, still not paying her any attention.

Clara decided to focus on the anger. Dracula was playing with her; tormenting her and manipulating her feelings for his own sadistic amusement. He observed her reactions and orchestrated his own to make her as uncomfortable as possible just because he could. She was his toy, a doll he could manoeuvre and laugh at when he desired and then discard when he was bored.

Well, she was not a game and she refused to sit there and be played with like that.

Whilst his back was turned, Clara quickly considered the shackle again. If she was seriously plotting an escape, that was the first obstacle. Maybe if she found something to make her wrist slippery she could squeeze out of the restraint? Or if worst came to worst break her wrist? Some of the prisoners of war who had taken refuge at the convent over the years had done that to escape their captors. Others had managed to pick the lock with bent nails or other debris, but Clara couldn’t see anything that could be useful within reach. A few had appealed to their guards; praised them, flattered them, sympathised, grovelled, built enough of a relationship that eventually the guards had felt a connection with them and let them go. Clara eyed Dracula contemplatively.

_Yeah, that’s not going to happen. Stick with the wrist-breaking. It’ll be less painful._

Clara couldn’t do any of that whilst Dracula was in the room though. She either needed to persuade him to leave or patiently wait until he left of his own accord, but if he was taking off his cloak it suggested he was staying for a while. Unfortunately, patience wasn’t something she possessed a whole lot of despite the Mother Superior trying to instil it in her and she couldn’t think of a single thing that would get him to leave. In fact, she suspected that if she tried to get him to leave it would just make him stay longer because he knew it was the opposite of what she wanted.

Either way, she couldn’t let him push her around like this. Just because he was bigger, stronger, older and capable of breaking her into pieces without too much effort didn’t mean she would let him think it was acceptable to treat her like this. She wasn’t’ just going to roll over like a good little pet and do whatever he wanted.

Clara scowled as she pushed herself up onto her elbows.

“What am I doing here? Why aren’t I…?”

“Dead?”

Dracula turned around to face her again and Clara nodded.

“I told you. Don’t you remember?”

Clara wracked her brain, trying to recall anything he might’ve said to explain her situation. He hadn’t said anything since she’d woken so it must’ve been back at the convent, if he was to be believed. That was all a bit of a blur though, especially after the kiss. Her mind had become sluggish and her body unresponsive; all she could remember was the carnage and sheer terror she’d felt.

And the kiss.

Dracula watched her try to put the pieces together, a small smile on his face.

“Hmmm, no?” he said when she didn’t reply after a while, “Are you struggling a bit? Well, let me refresh your memory. I won’t leave you in the dark.”

He walked back over to her.

“I’m taking you to England.”

Clara’s eyebrows shot up in surprise and her eyes widened. “What?” she breathed, “Why?”

The Count hummed. “A mysterious stranger travelling aboard a ship alone would raise suspicion, and when people start going missing I’m the first person they’ll accuse.”

Clara noticed he said ‘when’ and not ‘if.’

Dracula smirked and leaned down in front of her, “However, a mysterious stranger travelling with a _lovely_ young companion,” he stroked a finger from her collarbone to her chin, “Well, he couldn’t possibly be up to something nefarious, could he?”

Clara stared at him. She hadn’t been expecting this. She’d thought that Dracula was going to keep her locked up in this hut and feed off her slowly, eventually killing her, not take her to another country where she didn’t know anyone and wasn’t familiar with anything. That would make escape virtually impossible. Then there was the fact that, as far as she was aware, the journey to England would take weeks. Clara was going to have to spend _weeks_ in this creature’s presence being forced to play along with his games and manipulations, and as they were going to be in the middle of the sea there would be nowhere else to go. He would be constantly on top of her and always watching. It would drive her mad.

She wondered if he even planned for her to reach England.

“No.”

The Count stood up straight again and raised an eyebrow, “No?”

Clara shook her head resolutely, “No, I am not going to England with you. I’m not getting on any ship with you. I will not be used as a…a prop so you can cover up your evil acts. I will not be a mask, a distraction, something you use to lure innocents to their deaths. I will have no part in it.”

Dracula considered her silently for a moment, standing completely still except for the slow movement of his eyes as they flittered over her face.

“It’s interesting that you think you have a say in the matter.”

Clara refused to let the sharp stab of fear she felt at that statement show on her face. She raised her chin, gritted her teeth, and met his eyes stubbornly.

Dracula sighed and slowly sauntered over to another crate, not the one he’d rested his cloak on earlier but one a short distance away. He leaned against it and drummed his fingers along its top as he watched her thoughtfully.

“I suppose you are allowed to have feelings on the issue,” he said finally. “Not ones I will necessarily listen to, but you’re allowed them all the same.” He sighed again. “You are also allowed to make choices, again not necessarily ones I will listen to, but you’ve proved to make interesting ones in the past and I need you to come on this voyage with me willingly, so I’ll give you another one.”

He picked up a hammer lying next to the crate and swung it around a couple of times. Clara stiffened up defensively.

“You can come along to sunny old England with me or spend some quality time with Sebastian and Dimitri.”

_Who were Sebastian and Dimitri?_

Clara looked at him in askance. He smiled, took the hammer, and yanked open the lid of the crate.

A low, guttural moan sounded from inside and Clara watched in horror as a mangled, disintegrating hand rose up slowly and grasped hold of the rim. She could do nothing but stare as it was shortly followed by a human head with sunken in cheeks, blotchy skin and thin black wisps for hair and a torso that was little more than a rib cage with skin stretched tightly over it.

“I’m not sure if you remember the teachings of your Sister Agatha, but if you were listening to her you’d realise I needed an invitation to enter a building.”

The thing had managed to get both its hands on the rim and was now hauling itself up and over the top. It fell to the floor in a tangle of limbs and without showing even a hint of pain, immediately lifted its head.

And fixed its eyes straight onto Clara.

“Dimitri was the kind soul who let me in.”

Clara wasn’t sure what she was looking at, a man or skeleton or corpse. If that thing was Dimitri though, as the Count implied, who was Sebastian?

Her question was answered as a snarl came from the box and another head appeared. This one was in slightly better condition that the first but not by much. Its eyes were sunken far back in its skull and its skin was flaking off but it still resembled a human – it looked to be in the first stages of decay rather than a decomposing corpse.

“And Sebastian here was his business partner. Turned up looking for him only yesterday after he hadn’t heard from him for a week; unfortunate for him, extremely lucky for me. I’ve been extremely spoiled for sustenance recently. At this rate I won’t need to eat for the entire voyage to England.”

The Count sat himself down on one of the low boxes and casually crossed one leg over the other. He rested his head on his hand with his forefinger on his cheekbone as he observed the three before him as if they were a science experiment and he was interested to see the result.

Which included Clara’s rising panic as Sebastian joined his partner on the floor and the two started crawling towards her.

Despite their weak and decrepit state, the two moved surprisingly fast. Dimitri seemed to be too weak to stand, dragging himself towards her on his forearms and knees, whereas Sebastian was stumbling along like an injured animal on his feet. Clara saw the determination in their otherwise glazed over eyes and neither were paying any attention to their surroundings, their gaze fixed on her.

Clara scrambled away from them as fast as she could, and her heart dropped as she again felt the restraining yank of the chain on her arm. Clara tugged the chain desperately, harder than she had before, and her breathing accelerated as she started to panic. This was worse than Dracula. These things had no reason to them, she could tell that with a glance. They had one goal in mind, one desire, and that was to rip her to pieces and feast on her. She wrenched her focus off the things and frantically searched around her for a weapon, _anything,_ she could use to defend herself. She knew it was pointless, she’d already looked, but that was before she was seconds away from an unpleasant death. Forgoing that, she snapped her attention to the shackle itself, grasped it with her free hand and tried to pry it off her or wiggle free. It wouldn’t budge.

Clara screamed as one of the creatures grabbed her leg with a remarkably strong grip.

Clara could feel it pulling itself up her body, using her legs and hips and arms to heave itself up to her face. Wherever it touched it left behind a disgusting and unclean feeling and she cried out when it seized her head in its hands and squeezed.

Clara kicked out with as much force as she was capable of and it grunted as it fell back and away from her, but the other one had caught up. It gripped both of her legs and pulled on them so hard it lifted her off the bed, stretching her out like a convict on a rack. She could feel the strain on her limbs and knew that in a less than a minute they’d be dislocated. She tried to lash out with her free hand to hit the thing away, but the first monster had found it and decided to give it the same treatment his friend had given her legs.

Tears started to well in Clara’s eyes, the pain and terror mingling together to make her eyes water and her cry out in anguish. She prayed for help to come, for these monsters to let her go and the hurt to stop, but as the Mother Superior had told her countless times, God wasn’t going to come down and save her. Nobody was going to come and save her.

Clara caught a glimpse of the Count over the shoulder of one of the creatures, sitting there simply watching with a knowing little smirk on his face. Waiting. When he saw her looking at him, his smirk widened, and he waved a dismissive hand.

“Pick a beast: them or me.”

Bravery was a funny thing. People could preach about it all they wanted, could think it was a quality they possessed and that in the face of danger or adversity they’d step up without hesitation. But the reality was when there was a true threat in front of them that made death seem inevitable - like two undead beings wanting to tear off their legs - that presumed bravery became non-existent. It was as much a story as the fairy-tales children grew up with, a lie people told themselves to make them sound better than they were.

Clara had never pretended to be brave.

One of the things started clawing at her legs, leaving scratch marks along the length of them and the other crawled back on top of her. It leaned down; its harsh, rotten breath settling over her in a warm mask. When its mouth opened to reveal razor teeth and a large glob of saliva dripped into her face, she broke.

“You!” Clara cried, “You! I choose you!” She sobbed and shut her eyes, turning her head to the side as a loud snarl sounded next to her ear, “Stop! Please stop! Please!”

As soon as the words left her mouth, there was an inhuman screech and Clara felt something fine and powdery settle on her skin. Less than a second later it was followed by an identical sound.

There was no longer a heavy weight holding her down or warm breath on her face, nor was anything clutching onto her limbs painfully. There was no snarling, no sounds at all, and as far as she could tell there was no movement around her either.

Clara didn’t open her eyes.

She stayed completely still, her breathing shallow, coming out in gasps, and her body shaking violently.

The silence was broken by the soft click of shoes across the stone floor as someone walked to the side of the bed. Clara felt a weight settle down next to her and a gentle hand stroke her arm soothingly.

Slowly, Clara opened her eyes, dreading what she’d see.

There was nothing. No teeth. No corpses. No monsters. The only thing was the Count sitting on the bed next to her and a wooden stake resting innocuously at the foot of the bed on a pile of ash.

The same ash that covered her body.

Clara turned her head to stare up at the Count with wide, scared eyes. He smiled softly at her and pulled her body closer to his. The Count lay her head against his chest as he wrapped a comforting arm around her and began gently stroking her hair. 

They stayed like that for a while, long after her breathing and heartbeat had returned to its normal pace.

Just before her eyes started to drift shut from exhaustion, he placed a sweet kiss on her forehead and lightly took hold of her restrained wrist. He held it carefully as he slotted a key in and unlocked the shackle.

“Usually I’d encourage you to rest, but the ship is due to embark in six hours and I need to ensure everything is prepared.”

He nodded to a fairly large collection of luggage chests sitting under the window. “Those are for you. Pick out one travelling outfit – with a coat, please, I don’t want you to freeze in this weather. I’ll have someone come collect the others to take them to the ship.”

Clara didn’t move until the Count nudged her slightly. She sighed and sat up before sliding off the bed and wandering over to the chests.

Her eyes widened with amazement when she opened one of them and found it overflowing with garments, with a vast variety of colours and fabric richer than she’s ever seen before, let alone owned. She opened another chest; that one was full of jewellery. She could only imagine what was in the others.

Clara picked up a mauve dress and looked it over, admiring the way the fabric fell and felt against her skin, “How much did all this cost?” A horrible thought crossed her mind, “Or are these the clothes of your victims?”

The Count sounded offended, “I’ll have you know I paid for those. I can’t have my companion wearing second-hand gowns covered in God-knows-what. Your image will be a reflection of me: it has to be perfect.”

Clara wouldn’t admit that made warmth spread through her chest, both at the fact that he’d gone to such efforts to procure clothes for her and that he’d spent what couldn’t have been less than a small fortune on such beautiful ones.

“There are so many to choose from though. You didn’t need to buy all of them.”

Out of the corner of her eye she saw the Count shift uncomfortably.

“Yes, well, I wasn’t sure which ones you’d prefer. I thought offering you a range would mean you’d be able to find at least something you liked.”

Clara turned to face Dracula and peered at him curiously. He drew himself up and kept his expression blank as he returned her gaze, but Clara could see a flicker of vulnerability ripple across his features and uncertainty in his eyes.

He hadn’t needed to do that. Clara was his prisoner; someone he was using to avoid detection on his journey. All he had to do was procure her a few inexpensive outfits. It shouldn’t matter what design or colours she liked, he was only dressing a doll, a tool. That he had considered what she wanted and tried to make her somewhat comfortable, perhaps even happy, caused a strange rush of affection to wash over her.

Clara smiled unsurely at him, but it was genuine nonetheless.

The Count’s lips twitched up slightly in response and he strolled over to her, placing a comforting hand on her shoulder.

“I’ll prepare a basin for you so you can wash all that muck off and leave you to it.”

His touch lingered for a moment before he turned on his heel to do as he’d promised.

As he left the room, he called back to her.

“You lasted longer than I thought you would.”

It was then Clara knew she’d never make it to England.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for reading! Hope it wasn't too terrible. I can't promise they'll be any more to this but I'm gonna see what I can do xxx


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The Count is being suspiciously sweet (i.e. he doesn't threaten Clara's life once)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm really, really not happy with how this chapter turned out, hence why it's so much shorter than the other two. It was meant to be way longer with Clara making it onto the ship and interacting with others by the end, but I got so frustrated I cut it early. I nearly ended up cutting the whole chapter but by that point I'd written most of it so thought I might as well post. Consider this a filler chapter and please don't go in expecting the same standard the other chapters were.
> 
> Thanks for all the wonderful comments! You guys really push me to keep going xxx

Clara stood in front of the mirror she’d found stashed in one of the side rooms and reached up to reposition her hat for what felt like the millionth time. After spending over an hour exploring the chests of clothes and accessories, she’d chosen the long mauve dress she’d picked up originally because she liked the way it both made her eyes pop and softened her features. Also because she was going out of her mind trying to pick just one thing out of the masses of material, and every time she found something new she started questioning all the decisions she’d made up to that point. Eventually she’d lost her patience and picked up the first thing she’d seen.

To accompany it she’d added an amethyst necklace that stood out beautifully against the high white collar of the dress, a few gold rings, black boots, a plain black travelling coat, and a small, circular lilac hat. The hat was one of the less ostentatious in the collection and far more reserved than some of the hats Clara had seen the women in the town near the convent wear, but the simplicity made her feel more comfortable and normal.

After debating about it for about twenty minutes, she’d decided to wear the little bat brooch she’d discovered in the bottom of the jewellery case. She was sure the Count had only put it in as a joke, but she thought it was amusing and couldn’t wait to see his face when he noticed she was actually wearing it.

Clara sighed and brushed the front of the dress down. She didn’t look anything like herself. Throughout her life she’d worn simple clothes: as a child and young adult the white dress and apron best suited for life in a mountain village with shorter hemlines for hiking, and when she’d joined the convent her simple habit that all the nuns wore as uniform. She’d never dressed in anything this fine before and she was terrified of creasing it or getting even a smidge of dirt on it. Clara felt like an imposter and more awkward in her own skin than she had for a while; her reflection showed it too, staring back at her with wide eyes and hunched shoulders.

Considering she’d been locked in a storage hut, the last few hours had been fairly enjoyable. Clara had washed off the remains of the undead creatures in a basin the Count had provided and managed to sleep for what had to be at least an hour. Despite her dreams being plagued with nightmares – horrible images of fire and blood and rotted teeth snapping at her face – and her sleep restless, she felt refreshed and a bit more ready to face the day.

She hadn’t seen Count Dracula since he’d prepared the water for her; he’d left almost immediately to complete some last-minute errands and claimed he’d be back in a few hours. A dockhand had knocked on the door a short while ago to come pick up their luggage and lugged it away on a cart. Clara knew she could’ve said something to him, indicated that she was not here of her own free will, or just bolted when the door was open but it wouldn’t take Dracula long to hunt her down, especially as she didn’t know her way around the area. She wouldn’t get far, and when he caught her she doubted he’d be as considerate as he had been in the moments before he’d left. She’d still end up on the ship but likely shackled rather than having the slight freedom being his companion promised.

Plus, that’s no doubt what he expected her to do and Clara wanted to prove him wrong.

Clara had been fretting the entire time about how she should react when the Count returned. Should she act compliant? Follow his instructions and nothing else? Speak only when spoken to? Should she make life as difficult as possible for him to let him know she wasn’t happy with her current situation? Fight him constantly? Pull him closer or push him away? And then how was he going to behave? Would he be the menace who enjoyed torturing her and watching her squirm, or the more compassionate and gentle man she’d seen only glimpses of? ~~~~

Eventually Clara concluded she didn’t need to overthink it so much; she couldn’t predict his behaviour and she had no idea what his plans were, so she’d just have to deal with the situations as they arose. She also realised that she could relax a little around him because, if he needed her as a cover, he was going to have to keep her alive for a while longer. She could live comfortably with the knowledge that for today at least she was safe.

As safe as anyone could be spending their time with a vampire.

“Turn around.”

Clara jumped and snapped her head around to the source of the voice to find Dracula standing there watching her carefully. Her shoulders slumped in relief and she obliged him, slowly turning until she was facing him directly.

He tilted his head to the side as he considered her. Clara tried to stay absolutely still as his eyes roamed over her body, scrutinising every little detail. She held her ground as he stalked forwards, stopping right in front of her. He placed his forefinger on her chin and raised it slightly before tilting it from side to side, inspecting it from every angle.

“Almost perfect,” he said softly, removing his finger and letting her head fall naturally “Just a few changes.”

The Count reached around her neck and hooked his fingers under the chain of her necklace. He unclasped it before raising it until it sat in the hollow of her throat, his fingers gently brushing the back of her neck as he did.

“The aristocracy wear their clothes in a very specific way,” he explained. “Everything means something, from the way the hat lay on their head, to the length of their dress, to the position of their jewellery; they don’t wear it in the same manner a girl from the mountains does.”

Clara blinked a couple of times in surprise. She’d forgotten Dracula knew more about her than she’d told him – which had been next to nothing – because he’d had a sip of her blood. It should worry her; it was both invasive and dangerous. He knew where she’d grown up and where her family still lived, the last she’d heard, and even if they were no longer close they were still her family. If she angered him he could very easily track them down, murder them, and destroy the entire village for revenge. It was certainly his style. However, based on what she’d discovered about him so far (which wasn’t much, he hadn’t exactly been forthcoming), she didn’t think he would. He was travelling to England to make a new life for himself, and he wasn’t going to change what he’d been planning for months to get back at a powerless nun.

In amongst the fear was anger at the fact he was taking this information from her without permission, and worry about what he’d learned. He knew details about Clara and her life that she didn’t want anyone to know and wasn’t giving her the choice to tell him. Secrets she intended to take to the grave, the shame some of her choices had brought her, her fear and regrets were potentially exposed for him to judge. He was intruding on private matters that should only concern him if she wanted it too.

The thing was she wasn’t entirely sure she _didn’t_ want him to know about her life. Definitely not certain parts of it, she wasn’t going to lay her soul completely bare for him, but the idea of him _knowing_ her, seeing her as a person rather than a thing, excited her beyond words and aroused an odd sense of longing.

Clara wondered what else he’d seen when he’d drank her blood; it couldn’t have simply been where she’d grown up and why she was in the convent. And if he found that out from a sip, what could he get from more? What would he see if he drank far more from her than a bleeding thumb?

 _When_ he drank far more from her. She wasn’t a fool. She wasn’t going to spend weeks in close quarters with a vampire and not end up losing blood in the process. 

The Count held out his hands, palms up. Clara eyed him suspiciously as she hesitantly placed hers in his. She kept her hands still and steady as Dracula removed and rearranged a few of the rings she was wearing to other fingers and sometimes the other hand. Clara couldn’t keep up, there seemed to be no reason or logic to where he was moving them, but then she’d always thought the upper classes were a bit strange.

The Count considered them once more before allowing her hands to fall and reaching into the inside breast pocket of his coat. He pulled out a small ring box and flipped it open, taking the ring out before returning the box to his pocket. Dracula reached down and picked up her left hand gently, slowly slipping the jewellery onto her ring finger.

Clara stared at the ring in awe. It was stunningly beautiful; in comparison, the other pieces of jewellery looked cheap and tasteless. The band was rose gold and set into it were five diamonds, one large one in the middle and the others decreasing in size outwards from it. Clara didn’t know too much about rings, but she could tell this was _expensive_ and likely cost more than the rest of the collection put together.

“I can’t wear this,” she whispered without glancing away from the ring.

“And why not?”

“I’ll lose it.”

Dracula huffed with what Clara thought was amusement, “Try not to.”

He tilted her head up again, forcing her gaze away from the ring. As he did, his attention fell on the little bat brooch pinned over her heart. The Count raised his eyebrows in surprise and met her eyes with questions brimming inside them. Clara watched him back, daring him to say something.

Dracula’s lips twitched and he tapped the brooch with his finger three times, “Full of surprises, aren’t you.”

Clara smirked at him but didn’t respond.

The Count twirled his finger around in the air, demanding she turn around. She did and went back to scrutinising her reflection in the mirror critically. Dracula rested his hands on her shoulders heavily for a moment before removing her hat; the one she’d been trying to arrange unsuccessfully for a while and had only just managed to get to sit adequately.

The Count scooped her long hair up into one hand and immediately began twisting and moulding it into a design. Clara couldn’t see what he was doing as she was facing the mirror, but she watched the rapid movements of his hands and the cute little frown of concentration on his face in his reflection with fascination. Dracula continued working for several minutes until her hair sat in an intricate up-do on top of her head, where he secured it with a jewelled hairpin.

The Count replaced her hat - setting it in the perfect position on the first attempt - and ran his hands down her neck and over her shoulders, smoothing out her sleeves, before eventually landing on her waist. He wrapped his arms tightly around her, pulling her body against his, and pressing their cheeks together. Instinctually, she rested her hand on top of his. She stared at their reflection in the mirror and idly thought how perfect they looked together. Like they belonged with each other.

“Beautiful,” the Count said softly.

They stood in that position in peaceful silence for several minutes. Clara noted with some interest that the Count never looked at his own reflection. Although he was facing that direction, his attention never strayed from her, as if he didn’t exist.

He definitely existed though and made for a striking sight. The Count looked very suave and sophisticated in his sharp black suit and coat, all hard lines and muscled shoulders. His dark hair swept artfully to the side softened his features. He towered over her, which should have been intimidating but instead felt only protective. She could admit he was attractive, and with his recently considerate behaviour she could almost be fooled into thinking he was a normal man.

But he wasn’t. She had to remember that. Clara couldn’t afford to let her guard down or become comfortable around Dracula; she was treading a dangerous line as it was, letting him touch and hold her like this. She shouldn’t be encouraging him to become familiar or even show a hint that she found him interesting, not after the truly diabolical things he’d done. He had beheaded the Mother Superior and made a joke about it, butchered an entire convent of nuns without hesitation, and had no problem threatening Clara’s life on multiple occasions, and that was only in the time Clara had known him. The man was allegedly hundreds of years old; he almost certainly would have done far worse than that. Looks could be deceiving and Clara couldn’t forget that the considerate, honourable and generous nobleman was simply an illusion to hide the vicious, sadistic and murderous animal he truly was.

_Sometimes the Devil is a gentleman…_

Clara couldn’t – didn’t – trust him. He’d done nothing that suggested she should, and she’d learned long ago that those acting as the Count was now often had ulterior motives. Whilst kindness was a virtue, it was sometimes used as a weapon.

“Why are you acting like this?” Clara asked suspiciously, turning her head slightly to watch him out of the corner of her eye.

The Count sighed as if annoyed at her ruining the mood and like she was the one being difficult, “Like what?”

“ _Nice._ ”

“Would you rather I shackle you to the wall again and leave you covered in filthy rags? Beat you, lock you in a box, starve you? Laugh as you cry out for mercy as you slowly deteriorate into nothing?” He leaned down close to ear and his voice dropped ominously, “Because I can do that if you want.”

Instead of answering, Clara chose to simply glare at his reflection.

“Thought not,” the Count said, straightening up and untangling himself from her body. Clara tried not to feel disappointed at the loss. “But to answer your question about why I am acting ‘nice’. It’s because I know you aren’t going to run. Same reason I left the door unlocked.” He pinched her cheek and smiled condescendingly, “And you’ve been so well behaved, too. I thought you deserved a reward.”

Clara slapped his hand away with a frown and he chuckled. Clara needed to break the charged and tense atmosphere that had turned suffocating and divert the conversation back to something more comfortable. If they continued the way they were, she didn’t know what would come out. ~~~~

“What’s the ship called?” She asked, conversationally.

Dracula shot her a look that made her aware he knew exactly what she was doing but stepped away from her and started to walk over to the suitcase he'd sat on top of a crate. He opened it and started rummaging through it.

“ _The Demeter,”_ he answered. He pulled out a pile of papers from the case, skimmed the details and placed them in his coat pocket. He then dumped the suitcase in an empty crate, apparently not needing it anymore. “It’s not too far of a walk from here, just a little up the path. _”_

The Count glanced at the glazed over window. “In fact, it’s nearly sunset. The ship will be leaving very soon so we need to get going.”

Clara didn’t know how he could tell it was close to sunset, the window didn’t offer much of a view.

She nodded anyway in acknowledgement. “How are you getting there?”

The Count looked at her curiously, “I’m going with you, of course.”

Clara frowned in confusion, “I thought you couldn’t go out in the daylight? That it will burn you to dust?”

“ _Sun_ light will do that, yes,” the Count admitted, “Not _day_ light. There’s a difference. As long as it is dark enough that I can remain in the shadows, I will remain intact.”

“Oh.”

Dracula raised his eyebrows, “What did you think I was going to do? Hide myself in one of those luggage chests to sneak on board and come out by moonlight to hunt the other passengers?”

“No,” Clara mumbled, embarrassed and hoping he wouldn’t hear her, “Not the luggage chests…A coffin.”

“A _coffin?”_

“Well, you’re dead!” she said, waving a hand in his direction, “Dead people lie in coffins, and all the legends they told of you when I was growing up involved you sleeping in a coffin or a crypt.”

“Oh, I’m a legend, am I? I’m pleased my reputation precedes me.”

It was a mountain village away from civilisation, there were numerous legends passed down from generation to generation, but the most persistent had been that of the vampire nobleman. Most stories were told for entertainment in the long cold months of Winter when the children were bored and restless, but the legend of Dracula was different; it was the only one Clara had heard that made the village leaders’ eyes fill with fear and made the elder villagers weep. It was told every year without fail so every generation knew the stories.

Clara waved her hand dismissively, “You were a cautionary tale. ‘Better behave and not go wandering off in the woods, otherwise the blood-drinking beast will catch you and suck out all your blood.’”

“And yet you jumped straight into his lap.”

Clara decided not to linger on the memory those words evoked or the feelings that accompanied it. Instead, she rolled up her right sleeve to the elbow and stuck her arm out, pointing to a series of small blemishes on her skin.

“You see that?”

The Count stalked back over to her with an inquisitive expression on his face. His curiosity was clear but there was also a hint of suspicion there, as if he expected her to do something horrible to him and she was the dangerous one.

When he reached her, Clara straightened her arm out pointedly and he picked it up tentatively. He frowned as he tried to see what she wanted him to and raised her arm, twisting it around to catch it in different lights.

They were faint, but if someone knew they were there they’d see a series of dents in her skin arranged in a U shape. Clara had had those scars for almost her entire life and they’d faded over the years to the extent she rarely noticed them. However, they were a stark reminder about the danger her naivety and trust could put her in and that playing with beasts did not end well.

Clara saw the moment Dracula found them; he tilted his head as he considered them carefully, trying to puzzle out what he was seeing. He traced the marks gently with his thumb.

“What caused those?”

“When I was five, I decided it would be a good idea to try and pet a wolf. The wolf disagreed.”

The Count barked out a surprised laugh and dropped her arm.

“I make bad life choices. This,” she gestured widely at him, “is just the most recent in a long list.”

“Oh, I don’t know,” the Count said with a sly smile, “I’ve quite enjoyed your bad choices. They’ve certainly been fun for me.”

“That doesn’t fill me with confidence. You’ve not exactly made _good_ choices yourself and don’t seem to be the most stable person in the world.”

“A fair assessment.” Dracula glanced at the window again. “It’s time now. Are you ready?”

Clara looked in the mirror and straightened her hat one more time before nodding.

“Excellent.”

The Count held out his arm and reluctantly Clara took it. It wasn’t that she wanted to be close to him, to touch him, but it was the etiquette expected of a young woman with a male companion.

With his other hand, Dracula reached down to grab an umbrella propped up against the side of the nearest crate, and in one fluid movement raised and opened it above their heads.

“Stay my side. Don’t let go of my arm,” Dracula warned.

Finally, they walked out the door, leaving the darkness of the hut behind and walking into the daylight.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> "Sometimes the Devil is a gentleman" is a quote from Percy Bysshe Shelley. It was in one of his poems in 1839 so it's something Clara is likely to have read.
> 
> The next chapter might take a while because I don't really know where I'm going with it and all I have are fragmented ideas but I'll try and get it done soonish :) 
> 
> As always, thanks for reading and drop me a comment! xxx


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Clara finally ends up on The Demeter and is in for a nasty surprise.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> You'll be pleased to know I'm still alive.  
> Not gonna lie, I completed about half of this within a week of posting the last chapter but then I accidentally fell into another fandom and when that happens I struggle to get back into writing for something else. Thought I'd be safe because it was also about vampires so wouldn't take me too far away, but I was mistaken :/  
> This chapter is over double the length of the last one though so hopefully that sort of makes up for the absence?

Clara stared wide-eyed as she approached the hulking wooden structure of the ship she was due to board. Her eyes scanned the vessel, taking in the high timber beams and the dirty-white sails blowing in the light evening breeze. Ropes seemed to swing from or be tied to every surface and large crates were being hoisted from the dock to the ship by a pully system controlled by a group of burly men. A seabird squawked overhead, and she followed it with her eyes as it joined a flock swarming above before landing on the top of a mast. Only slightly below it a man clung to a net, completing a task Clara could only imagine, with no acknowledgement that he was precariously hanging at the height birds soared. There were crew members scampering up and down the deck yelling at each other and throwing tools to those who needed them, all busily concluding the final duties necessary for the ship to depart. Some sort of slimy substance coated the lower half of the boat and Clara tracked the line of water marks to the front of the ship, where a sign proudly proclaimed its name.

_The Demeter._

Clara swallowed nervously. She had never been on a ship before. She’d had no need to and the only time she’d travelled was the journey from her village to the convent which was all by land. The pictures in books she’d seen of the large boats and the tales from sailors she’d been told really didn’t do the real thing justice. They described what ships looked like but didn’t manage to convey the sheer magnitude or activity _The Demeter_ emitted. It felt _alive._ ~~~~

She hadn’t expected it to be so noisy either. The sailors she’d spoken to always told of how calm and relaxing listening to the crash of the waves was, how the gentle swaying of the ship felt like being rocked to sleep, and how hypnotising the changing colours of the water were. She’d always imagined it to be a similar experience to sitting by the lapping water of lakes or in a fishing boat but it really couldn’t compare.

If Clara was honest she was a little overwhelmed. She wasn’t sure what she was feeling, her emotions were all a tangled mess and both her heart and stomach were fluttering. Part of her was desperately scared; it was only now hitting her that not only was she leaving _everything_ she knew behind but she was sailing off into the complete unknown. She was stepping foot on that ship with no idea where she would end up, what was going to happen, who she would meet, and no clue what she was supposed to do. The other part of her was excited beyond words. She was free of the monotonous life she’d been living, off to discover the world, experiencing new things, and she couldn’t predict anything. There was something liberating about that.

Her time with the Count so far had been both terrifying and exhilarating, full of the unexpected and strange, and there was no reason to think their trip on _The Demeter_ would be any different.

The vampire had walked ahead of her once they were within sight of the boat, and ambled along a plank acting as a bridge between the dock and the ship with a grace that seemed out of place when he was surrounded by sweaty and rough-looking deckhands. He’d then dropped onto the deck and out of Clara’s view. Clara supposed he thought he didn’t need to keep an eye on her when they were so close to the ship and surrounded by people. It maddened her that he trusted she’d follow him onboard, or perhaps he was just so arrogant he expected everyone to obey him without question. It wouldn’t surprise her.

To be fair Dracula was probably correct if he thought being surrounded by people would hinder Clara’s escape rather than be any true threat. Nobody had looked at them like they were anything unusual on their way to the dock; just a man escorting his female companion for a walk along the port in the sunset. Nothing suspicious, nothing to be alarmed about, an everyday occurrence. The area was extremely busy too, with people rushing about all over the place like the Devil was on their tail, all of them concerned with where they needed to be and nothing else. Not only would nobody notice she needed help, if she ran she’d be caught up in the crowd which would slow her flight enough for the Count – who she’d noticed people moved out of the way for, like he was some kind of God – to reach her. Clara could scream for help but she doubted it’d do any good. People would probably think she was simply a hysterical mad woman and when a well-dressed man grabbed her they’d assume he was her caretaker. Appearances were deceiving but a respectable gentleman would not be questioned. ~~~~

Clara considered just turning and striding off back in the direction they’d come, not liking that the Count was so confident she wouldn’t bolt. Logically, he couldn’t run after her without drawing at least a little suspicion and the ship was about to leave so he would likely prioritise that over her. Surely it was better to attempt to escape and fail than not try at all and live with wondering what would’ve happened if she had? If there was even the slight chance she could reach safety shouldn’t she take the risk?

Clara reached the plank and stopped abruptly. ~~~~

_Now’s your chance, Clara. Run. If you get on that ship you will die._

The little voice of self-preservation was back at it again, warning her of the danger ahead and urging her to back away whilst she could. Whenever she didn’t listen to it – like back at the convent, which had resulted in Dracula drinking her blood, invading her private memories, and kidnapping her - she ended up worse off without fail. She could trust it. It had never failed her, kept her safe, and if it was cautioning her against getting on the ship she should listen to it.

Clara hopped onto the edge of the plank and began the walk across.

She didn’t make it very far. Five steps in and the plank started to wobble, making her stop in her tracks and scrutinise it warily. It didn’t look stable and she wasn’t convinced she’d make it to the other side without stumbling and plopping into the water.

“Clara, dear, what’s taking you so long?” The Count called back to her without turning around. Instead he was looking over the ship, scanning everything from the masts to the men hauling crates, with the supercilious air of someone who was watching ants scurry around with plans to squash them.

“This doesn’t look particularly safe,” Clara said, eyeing the plank with suspicion again.

The Count turned around to see what she was talking about and raised his eyebrows in disbelief. Clara could tell what he was thinking: he was a vampire, a murderer, who she was accompanying and she was more concerned with the safety of a bit of wood. 

Clara glared at him.

The Count looked like he was trying to hold back a smile as he walked back over, gracefully sprung up onto the ship-end of the plank and confidently took a couple of steps across.

He held out his hand to Clara. She glanced between the wood and his hand, weighing up her options, before reaching out and taking it tightly in her own. She took a few cautious steps forwards, testing to see if she could trust him and concluding that in this instance she could, darted the remaining distance.

Clara crashed into the Count and her face planted into his chest. He caught her before she fell, his arms encircling her to keep her steady and making her feel warm and safe. She was gripping onto his waistcoat, bunching up the material, and when she realised she was creasing it Clara relaxed her hands until they were resting flat against the Count’s chest. She looked up at him and stared, finding him looking back at her with something like tenderness.

They stood like that for a few moments before a loud bang tugged them out of their peaceful little bubble.

The Count cleared his throat and pushed her back a little, but before she had the chance to feel disappointed he’d taken her hand in his again.

He nimbly jumped down onto the deck and then without warning grabbed hold of her hips and lifted her off her feet. Clara squeaked in alarm and frantically scrambled for something to hold onto, settling for his shoulders. He gently deposited her on the deck and released his hold but didn’t step away. Clara didn’t know whether to be annoyed at the treatment or touched. On one hand she didn’t appreciate being manhandled or being treated as if she was helpless, but on the other the Count _had_ helped her without her asking and was being considerate of her feelings.

Instead of responding Clara looked away from him and brushed her dress down, refusing to meet his gaze and wondering if her cheeks were as red as they felt.

“Count Dracula.”

Clara startled in surprise and looked up again to see the Count facing away from her, his hat removed, and addressing two men. She felt a brief flash of annoyance that he’d ignored her so quickly before she properly considered the men. They weren’t passengers: they sported the same rugged, hardened appearance that every frequent sailor did. One – the one with a beard - was dressed slightly smarter than the other one, and in fact smarter than the rest of the crew by a mile; not enough to be a wealthy passenger, but enough that indicated he was an important person on board. The captain, most likely, or the first mate.

“Oh!” The man said, reaching out a hand for Dracula to shake, “Welcome aboard _The Demeter_ , sir. I am Captain Sokolov, I will be responsible for the comfort and safety of yourself and the rest of the passengers for our journey to England.”

The Count chuckled lowly as he shook the captain’s hand, “Oh, I have no doubt you’ll try your hardest to keep everyone safe, and I have complete confidence that it’ll make for a very entertaining voyage.”

Captain Sokolov frowned slightly at the odd wording. Clara understood; the Count had the amazing ability to be polite, flattering and charming when he actually meant something different and was anything but. Most people wouldn’t be able to pick up on the mocking undertone and those that did would likely dismiss it as being all in their head. Whilst their instincts told them what the Count was saying wasn’t pleasant, when they went over the words there was nothing offensive there. He could insult someone straight to their face but left no verbal evidence, meaning nobody could say anything. Dracula was clever that way.

At least the captain wasn’t entirely stupid and noticed the Count was a little off. That could very well save his life and, if he kept it in mind and acted on it, the lives of the crew and passengers.

Captain Sokolov’s gaze drifted over the Count’s shoulder and his eyes fell on Clara, who was still standing awkwardly near the gangplank.

The Count followed Sokolov’s line of sight and a slow, wide smile spread across his face.

“Ah, yes. Come along, dear.” He gestured her over to them and turned back to the captain, “Sorry. It’s her first time sailing. She’s a little nervous.”

Captain Sokolov nodded in understanding.

Clara frowned and drew herself up, not liking the way the vampire was talking about her as if she wasn’t there and explaining her behaviour as if it was something to be ashamed about. She quickly strode over to stand next to the Count, her boots clacking across the wooden deck.

“Ah, good evening to you, ma’am,” Sokolov greeted her, nodding his head in respect, “There’s no need to worry. Most of the crew are experienced sailors who have made a life at sea, and many have travelled with me on _The Demeter_ before so we act like a well-oiled machine. We have seen all kinds of weather, navigated all types of sea – rough and calm – and dealt with every type of problem imaginable. I’ve never lost a passenger. You are completely safe with us.”

Clara held in the hysterical laugh that wanted to bubble out of her. ‘Safe’ was not a word she’d use to describe her current situation or present company.

“How often do you sail?” She asked instead.

Sokolov seemed surprised at the question, “It depends on where we’re sailing too, ma’am, and where our services are needed. I personally have made this ship my home and only leave for brief periods when we dock. Usually to resupply or for a good meal. We don’t stay in one place for long though, normally only a few days before we set sail again.”

Clara raised her eyebrows, impressed, “Wow. That sounds incredibly busy. You must’ve seen so many exotic places and met many interesting people. Do you have a favourite? One you’d consider stopping your life at sea for and settling down in?”

Clara had wanted to travel when she was younger. She was quite comfortable in her little village and loved everyone there, but it became monotonous sometimes and she’d feel stuck. Her life was the same thing day in, day out, and the thought of spending the rest of her life in that cycle made her feel despondent and pulled her mood down whenever she contemplated the idea. She wouldn’t say she had big dreams of leaving and travelling the world because she didn’t know anything other than her village and the idea scared her, but sometimes when shovelling snow or watching the fire in the evenings she’d fantasise about running off into the woods and seeing where it took her.

Then she’d been shipped off to the convent and that made her tiny remote village seem thrilling. The nuns there had quickly become her family, each of them encouraging, comforting, reassuring, and helping her wherever they could, and were always ready with a hug and a smile. Clara had never had an issue with calling them her sisters and it tore her up inside that she’d never see them again because they’d been snatched away from her. Despite her new family at the convent, every single moment of her day was planned: the time she woke up, time for prayer, time to eat, time to sleep, everything was organised precisely for her, and Clara didn’t want to live her life on a schedule. She was stuck again, the same way she was stuck in her village, although this time she knew she’d never leave and there was no hope of seeing anything outside the town the convent was in again. She would die in that place, she’d been certain of it, and very nearly had.

The only sparks of excitement there, the things that really got her heart pumping and kept her brain engaged, were Sister Agatha and visitors. Sister Agatha was fascinating and, in Clara’s opinion, the world’s strangest nun. She was always up to something in her workshop, tinkering away or researching the supernatural and occult; where most nuns balked at demons and monsters and took extreme measures to avoid them, Agatha embraced them and actively hunted them out. Occasionally she’d let Clara into the workshop to help organise her mess of papers or feed the bats – and really, how exactly had Agatha caught and caged several bats by herself? – and told her all about her findings. The other nuns were never invited, only her, and Clara suspected even if they were they would turn down the opportunity, but they still came to Agatha’s evil-fighting lessons. Even though Clara hadn’t been expecting any of it when she’d entered the convent, Agatha’s weekly lessons on the beasts who lurked in the darkness and how to destroy them were something she’d looked forward to. But then Clara had always had a morbid attraction to the dark and bizarre.

The visitors who came to the convent – some seeking refuge, some spiritual assistance, others comfort or advice – were always telling Clara compelling stories that made her hungry for more and desperate to leave. Romantic tales of sailing the seas, exploring undiscovered places, meeting people from so many countries with different cultures, being captured and escaping and surviving. Their lives were full of excitement and love and wonder, but when they asked about her life she had nothing to tell them. She longed to create her own stories and recount inspiring experiences that would wow those who stood to listen.

However, Clara had accepted that would never come to pass. She was not one of those people who had opportunity fall into their lap or someone who was particularly lucky. She’d stopped imagining escape and resigned herself to only seeing the outside world through books, other people’s stories and her own imagination. There was no point dreaming about something that would never come true.

But look at her now: travelling the seas, meeting interesting people, and trapped by a beast with seemingly no hope of escape. If she survived, this would certainly be an impressive story to tell.

Captain Sokolov was watching Clara with curiosity. Clara wondered if it was unusual for a passenger to ask about his life. “My hometown, ma’am, back in Russia. It’s a sleepy little town but the views are beautiful all year around, and the people are always joyful and ready to feed you.”

Clara laughed, “That sounds delightful. I’d love to hear more about your journeys and life, Captain.” She turned to the crew member still standing next to him, who was also looking at Clara oddly, “All of the crew, actually. I’m sure you have some incredible stories to tell.”

The crew member looked startled but smiled shyly at Clara, and the captain was regarding her with a soft expression and a small, pleased smile of his own. “That we do, ma’am. That we do. I’m sure the crew would love to enamour you with their tales of woe and sacrifice.”

The crew member next to him nodded in agreement, smile still on his face.

“Excellent. I look forward to it.”

The Count coughed pointedly beside her and she turned to find him with a faint scowl on his face. Clearly she was doing something that he didn’t like. He sidled up closer to her and wrapped a possessive arm around her waist.

“Shouldn’t we be setting sail soon, Captain?” There was an underlying threat in his voice.

The captain sensed the Count wasn’t happy and backed up a step, “Ah, yes, that is very true, Count. We’ll be leaving within the hour and I have some final duties to attend to.” He nodded at Clara. “We shall speak again soon, ma’am.”

“Countess,” Dracula corrected quickly. Any animosity was wiped off the Count’s face and he beamed at the captain, “She’s my wife.”

Clara’s head snapped towards him and her eyes widened in disbelief.

_What. The. Hell._

Dracula wasn’t even looking at Clara, his eyes focused on the captain in a strange sort of stand-off as she stared at the side of his face. She would’ve wondered if she’d misheard him – she _hoped_ she’d misheard him – but his faint smirk let her know she hadn’t.

_The bastard._

Dracula quirked his lips in amusement, seemingly reading her thoughts.

As she continued to gawp at him, he gently intwined his fingers with hers and stroked his thumb over the ring on her left ring finger in a parody of affection. To others it would look loving: a simple gesture from an adoring husband to show the world his devotion to his lover. To her, it was the deliberately sadistic action of a smug and arrogant demon who was taunting and mocking her. ~~~~

That beautiful diamond ring that he’d placed on her finger with such care earlier wasn’t so beautiful anymore, not when Clara realised exactly what it was. ~~~~

“Yes, we’re off to England to celebrate our new marriage,” the Count continued, blatantly ignoring Clara’s dumbfounded expression, “We intend on staying a few months and possibly relocate there permanently. Isn’t that right, dear.”

Without his friendly expression faltering, Dracula dug his sharp nails into Clara’s hip so hard she was certain there would be indentations or bruises there later. It was a clear warning to behave and play along with his ruse if she wanted to live.

Clara summoned the widest, fakest smile she could and turned to the captain, “Oh, yes. I have relatives in England. I haven’t seen them in so long but they’re being kind enough to put us up in the Priest’s House at St Mary’s Church in Lancashire,” at the captain’s bemused expression she clarified, “My uncle is the priest there.”

“Ah,” Sokolov nodded, her words clearing up his confusion but he still looked like he wasn’t sure why she was telling him all this. None of what she’d said was true, of course; as far as she knew she had no relatives in England, or at least none she’d ever met. She knew lying was a sin but she couldn’t exactly tell the truth. ‘I’ve been kidnapped by a vampire and he’s taking me to who-knows-where to do who-knows-what’ would probably get her locked in her cabin for the entire journey.

Plus, she wanted to make the Count as uncomfortable as he’d made her. The way he was shifting restlessly beside her caused a thrill of triumph to shoot through her and brought a small smirk to her face.

Apparently, Dracula couldn’t let her have the last word.

“We won’t be staying too long, naturally,” the Count said with what could only be described as a sleazy smile. He moved the hand holding Clara’s to wrap around her shoulders and pulled her closer to his body, squeezing gently. “You know what newlyweds are like, Captain, and I’m not sure a priest would approve.”

Clara saw a sharp wooden peg resting innocuously on a nearby crate and eyed it critically, seriously contemplating how far she could get if she stabbed the vampire and ran before they caught up and arrested her for murder. ~~~~

Clearly Clara’s expression showed some of her homicidal intent as Dracula gently manoeuvred her in front of him and away from the dangerous stake-like object, his hands planted on her shoulders. She glared up at him.

Sokolov stood there awkwardly, not knowing how he was supposed to respond to the comment. “Um, congratulations on your marriage?”

The Count beamed at him and thanked him profusely.

“Excuse me? Did I hear right? Are you newlyweds?”

Dracula and Clara simultaneously turned towards the soft voice. At the opposite side of the boat stood an excitable young woman with beautiful features in a fashionable deep blue dress, her hands clasped daintily in front of her as she regarded the two of them with curious, innocent eyes.

Her hat was bigger than Clara’s. It had a giant feather sticking out the top of it that matched her dress and Clara instantly knew this woman had incredible wealth and privilege.

“You heard correctly…” The Count said brightly.

“Lady Ruthven,” the woman answered. Saying her married name out loud seemed to fill her with delight and her smile grew. “And you are?”

“Count and Countess Dracula,” the Count answered, gesturing to himself and Clara in turn and returning the smile.

Clara didn’t feel nearly the same delight Lady Ruthven felt at her shiny, new, and incredibly unexpected title. Instead she felt dread pool in her stomach, rage fill her heart, and a shiver run down her spine in what she chose to believe was revulsion rather than any form of pleasure.

“We’re recently married too!” Lady Ruthven grabbed onto the arm of an equally young, semi-attractive but bored-looking gentleman, presumably her husband. “How long for you?”

Lady Ruthven addressed this question to Clara and the squeeze of the Count’s hands on her shoulders compelled her to answer

“Oh, not long at all,” Clara said with a blank expression and her voice flat. This conversation was starting to irk her and she just wanted to get away from these people so she could scream at Dracula in private instead of continuing this rouse. “Seems like just a moment ago.”

“I know! I feel exactly the same. But isn’t it amazing?” Lady Ruthven said, looking at her husband with wide, adoring eyes. Her husband gave her a strained smile back, obviously not as enamoured with his wife or married life as she was.

“There’s nothing quite like it,” Clara agreed. She scowled when the Count bent down and kissed her cheek, whether in reward or to enforce her statement she didn’t know.

Clara wasn’t entirely sure how she felt about Lady Ruthven. She could already tell Lady Ruthven had been raised very differently to herself, protected from reality by her wealthy family and raised with the belief that marriage was the ultimate and end goal. Clara suspected that their clashing ideologies would cause some friction if they let it. She also had the air of a woman who didn’t know the realities of what married life would bring and the satisfaction of someone who had achieved a long-desired life goal; Clara didn’t know whether to pity the girl, worry for her, or despise her. On the other hand, her joy was infectious and she appeared harmless, and Clara could hardly dislike someone for being happy.

How long that happiness and innocence would last with Count Dracula on board was anyone’s guess.

Clara wasn’t sure on Lord Ruthven either. She didn’t have much to go on with him but he exuded entitlement and sleaziness, and based on his reaction to Lady Ruthven he was probably only with her for money. She couldn’t judge him for that in particular; despite the modern day, amongst the upper classes arranged marriages or marriages of convenience weren’t extinct like they were with others. Yet the contrast between his behaviour and his wife’s made her uncomfortable and gave her the feeling he was deceiving her in some way. Something about him set her teeth on edge and her survival instincts urged her to avoid him. ~~~~

Clara supposed she shouldn’t be judging the couple on first impressions. Goodness knows they were undoubtedly judging her. There was a larger age gap between the Count and Clara than the young Lord and Lady so they would presume a similar situation to their own: arranged marriage based on fortune and heirs. They would likely regard _her_ as suspect (ironic when the other person was a vampire) because Clara was very obviously a different class to both the Count and themselves; she didn’t have the grace and training an aristocrat had which begged the question of how she had ended up in what appeared to be an extremely beneficial situation at first glance. Clara doubted they’d believe kidnap.

If she spent time with and familiarised herself with them she’d likely find two agreeable people with fascinating lives and opinions, and if they gave her the chance they’d see there was more to her than how she appeared. They had four weeks, there was plenty of time for them to become friends. Clara had a small spark of hope that they’d notice something wasn’t right with the Count and her, though she wasn’t naive enough to let that hope overcome her. Although there was a chance, that chance was slim.

Lady Ruthven was still holding on to her husband’s arm, but he wasn’t focusing on her. Instead, he was eyeing the Count up and down with interest – not the sort of interest a man would take when sizing up a rival or trying to work out where they stood with another gentleman, but the sort of interest Lady Ruthven was giving her husband. Clara noticed a man standing slightly behind and to the side of the couple, glaring at both Lady Ruthven and the Count.

_Ah._

Clara wondered if Lady Ruthven knew. She doubted it, that sort of thing wouldn’t even enter into the young woman’s head with the circles she ran in and her protection from harsh realities.

A quick glance up at the Count suggested he at least was well aware of the effect he’d had on the Lord. Clara was certain he’d be using that to his advantage sooner rather than later and play on the man’s affections.

“You all must be tired, I know some of you have travelled some distance to be here,” Sokolov announced. Clara was thankful he’d said something before she was expected to make more conversation on a topic she didn’t want to think about. “I’ll have someone show you to your cabins and bring your luggage.” He turned to the crew, “Carlisle, please take the Grand Duchess to Cabin 6. Jonah, the Lord and Lady to Cabin 2 and Mr Adisa to Cabin 3. Teddy, Dr Sharma and his daughter to Cabin 8. Piotr, the Count and Countess to Cabin 4.”

There was a sudden burst of noise and movement as boys and men scurried forward on command to assist their assigned passengers.

A small, timid boy with messy dark hair and wide, borderline terrified eyes was bumped forward by the crew member who had been standing next to the captain. The boy - Piotr, Clara supposed - headed straight towards them, stumbling a little, noticeably nervous and unsure. Poor kid looked as overwhelmed as Clara felt and she very nearly insisted she carry her own luggage just so one of them could have peace of mind.

Piotr bowed his head and blinked owlishly up at them for a few seconds before spotting a few suitcases to the side which Clara presumed were theirs. He darted forwards and fumbled them all into his arms, quite a feat for someone his size, before indicating his head toward a door leading down.

“This way, Count, Countess,” he squeaked. His voice shook and he refused to meet their eyes.

The Count ignored the boy’s awkward uncertainty, not caring about whether he was comfortable or not, and held out his hand for her. “My dear.”

Clara hoped he saw the fury in her eyes as she snatched his hand and squeezed hard, digging her nails in in case he’d missed her displeasure. He chuckled lowly, quiet enough that nobody else could hear, and squeezed back with a strength that almost broke her fingers. She swallowed back the sounds of pain, refusing to give him the satisfaction.

They followed Piotr slowly and Clara observed the crew member from earlier lean down, rest a hand on Piotr’s shoulders and quietly mumble directions to the boy. Clara guessed the boy was new, and if she wasn’t so angry she would’ve smiled at the caring way the crew were helping him.

Piotr nodded to the man in understanding and glanced back to make sure they were still behind him, before swiftly disappearing down below deck. Clara paused, scanning the crowd: the bustling crew and the excitable passengers, all ages from young to old and at all stages of life, blissfully unaware of what was lurking on the ship with them. As her eyes fell on each individual she wondered how many of these people would make it to England and if she’d be one of them.

The Count urged her along and the diminishing light of day disappeared to be replaced by the dimmer, flickering lamps inside. Clara looked around curiously as they followed the boy through various passages, the simple wooden walls feeling homely and stairs leading down intriguing her. It quickly became obvious how small the space was, that everyone would be living on top of each other for the month, and that there was nowhere to hide. She didn’t let go of Dracula’s hand, simply because she did not know if he would allow it and there was a twinge of fear about what he’d do if it wasn’t what he wanted. Clara was angrier than she was scared at that moment, but Piotr was only a young boy who was anxious to get his job done right and unsuspecting of any danger. He was an easy target, and whilst Clara assumed the Count wouldn’t attack anyone until after they’d set sail, she wouldn’t put it past him.

After several wrong turns they finally arrived at a door identical to all the others except it had a big number four printed on the front. Piotr struggled to open the door with his hands full of suitcases but after a few attempts managed it, releasing a small sound of triumph at his success.

“Count, Countess, your cabin,” he said, gesturing them inside. The Count entered first, pulling Clara along with him and Piotr followed immediately after. The boy looked around for somewhere to rest their luggage and settled on a spot to the left of the room. He straightened up and stared at the two of them as he shifted awkwardly, uncertain as to what his next move should be. “If you, er, need anything feel free to alert any of the crew.”

The Count hadn’t ventured too far into the room and instead kept the two of them by the door. Clara noticed it was the only part of the cabin that wasn’t touched by the late evening sunlight. Dracula smiled at Piotr, “Thank you, Piotr. We’ll remember that.”

Piotr nodded and dashed out of there, the door closing behind him with an ominous thump. The moment it did and Clara was sure nobody would enter, she shoved the Count’s hand away from her and grit her teeth, glaring harder and with more venom than she ever had before.

The Count ignored her hostile stance and slithered around the edge of the room, sticking to the shadows, until he reached the little window; he immediately shut the drapes, the action almost violent. His shoulders dropped as he relaxed at the lack of potentially-fatal sunlight and then he silently walked to the mirror and turned it around.

Clara waited impatiently for him to face her, observing his movements closely and following him with her eyes as she clenched her fists at her sides. When he faced her again surprise flickered across his face at her rigid posture and belligerent expression. That just made Clara angrier; the fact he had the _audacity_ to be surprised she wasn’t thrilled with the prospect of a fraud-marriage to him.

“Is something the matter, dear?”

Clara almost snarled at him, “You said companion, not _wife._ ”

A slow, knowing smirk eased its way onto Dracula’s face, “Would that have changed your answer? Would you have refused to travel with me if I indicated you’d be my wife? Would you have chosen death instead?”

_No._

Clara decided not to answer and divert the conversation so she was back in control, “Companion, I could do. Wife means I actually have to pretend to like you.”

That stupid smirk stayed on his face as the Count raised a hand to rest over his heart, “You wound me.”

Clara growled. The lack of sunlight must have been distorting her vision because she could’ve sworn she saw the Count’s pupils dilate and his expression turn hungry.

She didn’t _understand._ What were his intentions, his reasoning, his logic? The Count could’ve simply said she was his companion; companion would work just as well to hide his evil activities and was no more scandalous than wife, unless there was an implied sexual relationship. Is that why he chose wife? He expected people would be suspicious of their interactions? Of some sort of tension between them? Or did he just want to keep a close eye on her to make sure she was behaving, and wife meant they’d be sharing a cabin and be expected to spend the majority of their time together? The other passengers and crew had no need to be suspicious of the former, there was nothing more to their relationship in terms of romance, no secret sexual affair or desire. At least none that she’d admit to.

“Why?”

“Why what?”

Clara’s eyes narrowed, “Why make me your wife?” She cringed at the wording, worrying it sounded like she was accepting they were a real couple. “Companion, that’s fine. Friend, whilst inaccurate, would also work to mask your true self and schemes. There's no reason to change it to wife, so why do it?”

“I thought this way would be so much more fun. So far I have not been disappointed; your reaction was priceless.”

Clara gaped at him. She didn’t know why she was surprised, Dracula was certainly the sort of person to cause mischief and suffering for his own amusement. She tried to remember that God had a plan for her; that she was on this ship with the infamous vampire because it was God’s will. She had to trust in Him and believe He knew what he was doing.

Although speaking of God…

“I can’t be your…your wife,” Clara said, “I’ve already made my vows to God.”

The Count’s laughter echoed loudly in the small cabin and he looked at Clara with a face-splitting grin. “Oh, come on. We both know you didn’t join the convent because of your _faith_.”

Clara froze, a short stab of dread and betrayal shooting through her chest. She was aware the Count knew all about that, violating her mind as he had, but she hadn’t expected him to bring it up. It was not a topic she wanted to discuss and would prefer it to stay buried deep in her memories and never resurface.

“I believe in God,” Clara said firmly, “I believe in His benevolence, His plan, His punishments. I believe our actions on Earth reflect our future in paradise. Just because I didn’t originally join the convent because of my faith does not mean I don’t have it, and it does not mean I did not promise my life to a being higher than you.”

“You shouldn’t. God doesn’t exist.”

“If you truly believe that why do you fear the cross?”

The Count chuckled, “Nice try.” He walked towards the corner of the room where Piotr had left their luggage and picked up a light brown case with ease, before setting it down on the small bed and opening it. “You should read Darwin,” he said distractedly, rummaging through the case and starting to lay out his clothes to be stored. “It’s a compelling read and far more likely than some invisible being judging our actions.”

Clara was scandalised, “It was banned in the convent. It’s blasphemy.” There was a rebellious part of her that craved to read the text though. The Church ordering her not to read it had just made her want to read it more.

“I’ll get you a copy when we arrive in England,” he said nonchalantly, “A young woman such as yourself should be aware of modern theories so you can make your own decisions.”

Did that mean he was keeping her around? Was he planning on actually allowing her to live?

Whatever his plan was, the dismissive and uncaring attitude he was taking with her fuelled her ire.

“And what exactly are your plans for me when we get there? You can’t keep me as your pet wife forever. I won’t do it.”

“Again, you think you have a choice?” The Count smirked and stopped his unpacking to address her fully, “To be honest with you, dear, I haven’t decided what to do with you yet. I could drain you dry and throw your body overboard to become fish food. I could _allow_ you to survive the voyage and sell you to the highest bidder when we land for them to do whatever they wish with you. Or, despite your vehement objections that I can’t, I can keep you at my side. Whisk you off to my new property and, depending on how well-behaved you are, either lock you in the tower to never see daylight again or let you roam free as _mine._ ” Dracula shrugged, “Who knows, perhaps you’ll warm to me and we can make our fictional marriage status true. How about that? You live with me, share my bed, maybe pop out a couple of children? Does that sound good?”

It made her feel a little sick if she was honest and her horror clearly showed on her face if the Count’s wicked smile was anything to go by. He was trying to get a rise out of her and scare her, and he was succeeding.

“I’m not your wife,” she said, hoping the shake in her voice came across as anger over fear, “and I never will be.”

“I have the papers to say differently,” the Count replied. “You were sleeping in that storage hut for quite a while; enough time that, with the right connections and money, a man could easily procure documents to prove he is lawfully married. It is not that difficult.”

“I don’t believe you.”

Wordlessly, the Count reached into his coat pocket and pulled out a roll of papers. He looked her directly in the eye before throwing them down on the bed and returning to his unpacking.

Clara eyed them sceptically. She knew he wanted her to read them but she was anxious about what she would see; if he was telling the truth and she saw the words on the page, there would be no escaping it but if she didn’t she could live in happy denial.

Clara reluctantly edged towards the bed. She shot suspicious glances at the Count who was apparently engrossed in his luggage, but the slight curve of his lips belied his true focus. When she was close enough, she snatched up the papers and retreated to her previous position close to the door, unrolling the papers and skimming the words.

_Well, looks like I’m married then._

Clara glared up at the Count from under her eyelashes and snarled, her hands shaking, “I hope you fry in the sunlight and the dust of your body blows away in the breeze.” ~~~~

The Count dropped the shirt he was holding, threw back his head and laughed. He was almost bent over double with the force of it and after a few minutes of nothing but his laughter and Clara fidgeting in both annoyance and discomfort, he turned to her with a painfully wide smile that hurt Clara’s cheeks just to look at.

“Wow. That was dark,” he said, “Bit of darkness in you, isn’t there, Clara.”

Clara ignored the shiver that ran up her spine when he said her name, choosing instead to cross her arms and frown.

The Count chuckled and started walking towards her. Clara stubbornly held her ground even though her instincts were screaming at her to back away.

“There’s no need to look so glum,” he said, stopping directly in front of her, “I will be the perfect, doting husband.”

Clara’s frown deepened, “Well I hope you don’t expect me to be the perfect, dutiful wife.”

He tilted his head and raised his eyebrows in question.

“I’m not having sex with you.”

The Count grinned, “I never asked you to. You jumped to that conclusion all by yourself.”

Clara was angry at herself now and embarrassed that he was right; that _had_ been where her thoughts had immediately jumped too. It wasn’t her fault that in her head marriage equated with intimacy and, though she’d never say it out loud, Dracula was attractive - physically, at least, his personality certainly wasn’t. She wasn’t necessarily ashamed of those feelings or that sometimes her eyes lingered longer than necessary on his chest or lips or muscles. She’d been taught by the Mother Superior that those urges were normal, that everybody had them and that was nothing to be scared or guilty over. It was acting on them that was sinful and would lead to disgrace.

She would never act on them. She would not give herself to a monster. She would not break her vows for Dracula, even if her life was in danger.

“Whatever you say,” Clara said, “But I can’t stand the sight of you, and if I have to listen to any more of your lies and nonsense then I’m going to do something I’ll regret. I’m leaving.”

She turned on her heel sharply and stormed towards the door. Her hand was on the doorknob, preparing to turn it and escape the Count’s stupid, knowing smirks, when she was stopped by a hand clasping her wrist tight enough that she couldn’t move her hand. She tensed the muscles in her hand to see if she could loosen Dracula’s grip but the man’s nails gouged viciously into her skin and his grip tightened unbearably. Clara’s heartbeat sped up a little at the action and she stared at their hands: this wasn’t the warning gesture of earlier when he’d touched her hip in a similar way, this was meant to do some damage and _hurt_.

“No,” the Count growled, “You stay here.” ~~~~

The tone of his voice sent an unpleasant shiver of fear up her spine and her heart went painfully cold, icy tendrils spreading through her veins and making goosebumps erupt on her skin. Nervously, she peered up at the Count’s face and immediately took a step back in alarm at the expression there.

It was like someone had flipped a switch. Gone was the charming, teasing, and calm man with his gentle touches and chuckles, being suddenly replaced with a cold, hard, unforgiving man with a blank expression on his face and gritted teeth. This was a different monster to the one who killed her convent and set the undead creatures on her in the storage hut, but it was a monster all the same – a worse monster. This was someone who could kill without reason and without flinching, someone who was unpredictable and could torture a person in imaginative ways and not remember their names afterwards.

Clara tried to say no, to reply with the defiance and anger the situation deserved, but no sound came out of her mouth. She spluttered like a fish out of water and was frozen to the spot. The Count’s eyes flickered over her face before he snarled and _yanked_ on her wrist, sending shooting pains up her arm and making tears form from the agonising burn in her shoulder. There was a whoosh of air and she blinked several times in confusion as she found herself now standing in the middle of the room, far from the door, in Dracula’s arms and pressed firmly against his body. 

Clara attempted to pull away, but the Count put a strong hand on her lower back and simply pushed her closer to him until her hips and chest were pressed against his own. Her body shook as she struggled and tried not to look directly at him – she didn’t want to see his expression.

Clara stilled as the Count leaned down and hovered over the pulse point on her throat, undoubtedly being able to feel her rapid heartbeat thrumming under her skin. As he ghosted his lips up the side of her throat she could’ve sworn she felt the sharp edges of his teeth, before they stopped at her ear.

“Remember my dear, you serve a purpose,” Dracula said, “If you cause too much trouble or your usefulness stops, I’ll have no reason to keep you around. So I suggest you stop acting like a child and do what I tell you too.” He started to walk his fingers up her back, “If I tell you to act as my wife, you bend over backwards to do it. If I tell you to turn around and walk away whilst I suck the life out of a passenger, the words are barely out of my mouth before you obey. If I tell you to open your veins because I’m peckish, you do it with a smile.” The fingers that had been easing up her back wrapped around her throat and the Count’s tone became threatening, “And when I tell you to stay, you damn well stay.”

There was silence, the only sounds in the room Clara’s rapid breathing and the crashing of the waves outside the cabin window.

“You’re sick,” Clara whispered eventually.

“Until death do us part, my love.” A slow smirk crossed the Count’s features. “Well, your death at least.”

Clara couldn’t take it anymore: his threats, his unpredictable mood, his touches, and the fact that he was _right_. Her life was in his hands and she really had no choice but to obey if she wanted to live to see another sunrise.

She tilted her head back as if asking for a kiss and watched as the Count’s eyes dropped to her lips. She forced a soft, encouraging smile and he leaned forwards, brushing his mouth over hers.

When he pulled back, Clara spat in his face and slammed the heel of her boot onto his foot, causing him to jerk back and bend over. Whilst he was distracted, she bolted for the door.

“Be careful, _sweetheart,”_ he called after her, the tension in his voice evident, _“_ You’re on a ship full of sexually frustrated men and, though I know you’re not used to being around them due to your _vows_ , they do only think with one thing.”

Clara didn’t stop. She flung open the door and slammed it shut behind her, placing both of her hands against it to stop him opening it again. After a few minutes with no violent hammering at the door and the muffled sounds of the Count moving things around – likely resuming his unpacking like nothing had happened – Clara relaxed and let her arms drop. He wouldn’t follow her. It’d make too much of a scene which would draw attention the Count didn’t want, especially this early in the journey where it was easy to escort them off the ship.

Clara let out a shaky breath and rubbed at the ache in her shoulder from where Dracula had dragged her across the room. It still hurt and revealed the vampire had unnatural strength he was not opposed to using against her.

“Excuse me, ma’am.”

Clara jumped and spun around to find the crew member who had been assisting the captain and smiled at her earlier standing there watching her curiously. His eyes dropped to the arm she was still tentatively massaging.

“Are you hurt?” he asked. His gaze darted to the door and back before he lowered his voice to a whisper, “Did he hurt you?”

_“There are reports of the vampire having super sensitive hearing.”_

Agatha’s words from her ‘fighting the forces of evil’ lessons came back to her and Clara knew Dracula would be listening to the conversation. She could easily say yes and hope the captain was informed and would move her to a separate cabin, but she suspected they wouldn’t make it that far. There was no way the Count would allow his trip to be ruined or let Clara free, and he’d do whatever it took to stop that. Clara would not risk this innocent man’s life.

“Just a little domestic disagreement,” Clara said reluctantly, “Nothing to worry about.”

The sceptical expression on the man’s face revealed he didn’t believe her.

“It seems I have some spare time,” Clara said, trying to distract him, “Is there anything you’d recommend doing before dinner? I’ve never been on a ship before and am a little lost.”

The man nodded thoughtfully, “Yes-s-s, ma’am. I would take a trip around the deck. It is a beautiful view when the sun is s-s-setting.”

Clara smiled, “Thank you…?”

“Portmann, ma’am.”

“Portmann.” Clara glanced around and pulled a face as she realised she didn’t know where she was. “Could you please point me in the right direction?”

Portmann smiled softly back at her and gestured behind him at the direction he’d come from, “Down here, ma’am, take a right when you get to Cabin 2, down the stairs, along the corridor and then up the stairs again. It will bring you to the deck.”

Clara blinked.

Portmann noticed her alarm and laughed gently, “I will escort you if you like, ma’am.”

Clara grimaced, “I wouldn’t want to put you out.”

“It’s no trouble, ma’am. I have some free time.”

“Well, then,” Clara said, stepping next to him, “Lead the way. Perhaps you could tell me some of your stories why we walk. And perhaps you might call me Clara.”

“I would like that, Clara.”

With that, they walked away from the Cabin, away from Dracula, away from the monster and into the sunset.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I know I'm gonna sound like a broken record, but I really don't know if/when there will be another update. If it's gonna end prematurely, it's gonna be now because a) I've no idea where I'm going from now on. I have 3922 words of random sentences that I need to spread over several chapters and they're in no order at the moment b) I can't remember what happens in episode 2 so I'm gonna need to re-watch it c) I'm about to start a new job so won't have much time to write d) Noughts and Crosses just started on BBC, which is based on my favourite book series of all time (next to Harry Potter) so I'm gonna be committed to that and be too much of an emotional mess to write horror.
> 
> Drop me a comment if you can. They really do push me to write xxx


	5. Chapter 5

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Clara meets the other passengers

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I kinda lost interest in this fic which is why it took so long to update. I just wasn't excited to write this chapter, despite the fact that after I decided to make this a multi-chaptered fic it was one of the chapters that was clearest in my head. It's not the best thing I've ever written and I had like 3 different versions of it at one point so please be nice.
> 
> A few things to note about this chapter: 1) I have created backstories for some characters that aren't canon. Just go with it. 2) If a sentence is italicised and in speech marks it is representative of sign language 3) for some bizarre reason I'm not very nice to Lord Ruthven and Adisa. It wasn't supposed to be that way but it kinda spiraled 
> 
> The most important thing to note about this chapter is that there is very little of the Count (sorry). He's mentioned a lot but this chapter is more about Clara building relationships with other characters and the chapter became too long to include him so I had to split it into two. He'll be back very soon.

Clara frowned and drummed her fingers on the small wooden table as she regarded the sheet of paper acting as a menu in front of her. After years of having no choice in what she ate or drank, everything being chosen for her by her family or the convent, the options given to her now were staggering.

She subtly glanced over to the nearest table where Lord Ruthven was sitting to see what he’d ordered and if she’d find it appealing. After determining that no, a plate full of bread wasn’t to her liking, and mentally adding ‘vain’ to her list of observations about the man as she saw him check his reflection in his knife, she let her eyes drift around the room.

It was a cosy little set-up. Several tables with surprisingly white tablecloths had been crammed into the room and lit candles set atop them, creating a comfortable and warm atmosphere. Books sat on shelves begging to be picked up and paintings of idyllic landscapes hung on the walls. One of the young crew members was dressed in a nice shirt pouring wine quietly and the soft hum of conversation filled the space. Overall, it felt very classy and if Clara didn’t know any better she’d say she was in a study in a stately home rather than the dining room of a rocky ship.

Not all the passengers had arrived yet. Doctor Sharma and his daughter were seated at the table nearest the bookshelves and had been rapidly communicating in what Clara recognised as sign language since they arrived, and Lord Ruthven sat alone at a table close to the door. His servant/friend/lover was lurking over by the windows sipping from a glass, but the other passengers were yet to appear. She supposed it was still early but she felt a little lonely sitting by herself, especially with everyone else paired up.

His Royal Highness, her _darling_ husband, had deigned not to join her for dinner.

That had infuriated and maddened her. If she was to be his companion – his pretend wife – he should be spending time with her rather than skulking off to do who-knows-what. She wasn’t a clingy person and she wasn’t _jealous_ (why would she be? There was nothing to be jealous of), but she expected for his ruse to work he’d have to appear with her in public at least a few times. Clara knew she should be rejoicing he was nowhere near her, especially after what had happened back in the cabin, but instead she felt affronted; he’d dragged her here, blackmailed her, threatened her, and now he wasn’t even giving her the time of day.

She wouldn’t say any of this to him, she knew it sounded whiny and childish and like she was begging for his attention like a puppy, and she didn’t need the smirks and snide comments that would follow it. His head was already big enough.

Clara had hoped she could have dinner with Portmann, knowing she’d be far more comfortable with him than with the wealthy clientele aboard the ship, but was gently informed the crew ate later and in the kitchens; no place for a Countess.

Clara had enjoyed her time with him. Portmann had a very calming presence; his soft tones lulled her racing heartbeat back to normal level after the incident with the Count, and she’d felt herself relax around him. He’d been good enough to not only escort her to the deck so she could see the sun set fully, he’d stayed with her through one of the few breaks he was given just to talk. She suspected he was reluctant to leave her in case the Count came after her, clearly having noticed her distress when he’d found her and rightfully concluding the vampire was to blame. It warmed her heart that someone she’d just met, a stranger, cared enough to try and protect her and she’d quickly become fond of the man.

When she’d mentioned she liked to hear other people’s stories, he’d humoured her despite his claims his wasn’t very interesting. Clara had laughed and revealed that, as a past nun, she could guarantee his would be better than hers. The surprise at her reveal had been obvious but he’d gone on to tell her some amazing stories of his homeland, his previous trips and his family. How he’d grown up in Bavaria but left for the adventures of the sea, like many of the crew, and then after a year's travel he’d met the love of his life in a small port town in Bulgaria. They rarely saw each other due to his job – it paid well and he liked his crewmates – but had two little boys together. Portmann was considering giving up his life onboard to find work closer to them so they could be a proper family rather than simply a father who sent money when he could. This was potentially his last voyage. 

Clara had ended up enjoying the company more than the sunset.

When Portmann’s break ended and he had to return to his duties, he’d pointed her back towards her cabin. With great reluctance and head hanging like she was walking to the gallows and her death, Clara had made her way slowly back to Cabin 4. She paused outside the door and took a deep breath in as she prepared herself. She wasn’t sure what to expect or what mood the Count would be in after she literally spat in his face; he might’ve calmed down in their time apart, perhaps even realised why she was so angry though that was unlikely. On the other hand, he might have decided she wasn’t worth the trouble or the injuries and kill her right then and there.

Clara listened for movement on the other side of the door. She couldn’t hear anything but that didn’t mean the Count wasn’t there. She realised that if he was there his unnaturally sensitive hearing would mean he knew she was standing outside, so opened the door and cautiously entered the room.

The Count was indeed there, sitting at the little desk next to the closed drapes and flicking studiously through a stack of papers. He glanced up and over his shoulder at the sound of the door opening and they stared at each other silently for a moment. Clara stood in the middle of the room, awkwardly shifting from foot to foot, unsure about what to say and waiting to see who’d break the silence.

It was her.

“Hello,” Clara greeted, eloquent as ever.

The Count raised an eyebrow at her and his lips twitched up at one end, “Welcome back. Did you enjoy your walk?”

Clara nodded unsurely, realising she’d been right and the Count had been listening through the door earlier. “Yes. It was a beautiful sunset. Interesting company.” She briefly considered asking if the Count could see sunsets with his aversion to sunlight but quickly dismissed the idea; she didn’t want to ruin the amiable atmosphere if it was something that would sour his mood. Clara scanned the room for something to talk about. He’d obviously calmed down and was being unexpectedly polite so she supposed she should try to be too. ~~~~

“What have you been doing?”

The Count turned back around to the desk and tidied up the papers there, putting them all into one neat pile and placing them in a folder to keep them safe, “Reviewing my new property contracts and some more recent business investments. All very dull, I assure you.”

Clara could imagine it would be.

They fell into an awkward silence. Clara had the feeling they both wanted to sustain the unspoken truce but didn’t know what to say or do to prevent the situation spiralling or bringing up the elephant in the room. She wouldn’t apologise. He wouldn’t apologise either. Neither of them believed they were in the wrong. It was a truce, yes, but it was also a stalemate.

She dreaded being stuck in this strange limbo for the entire voyage with this uncomfortable tension between them; walking on egg-shells around each other, silences full of unspoken questions and apologies never to be. It would make a difficult situation even worse.

The Count cleared his throat, making her jump slightly as the sudden loud noise broke the silence. He stood up and a rare flicker of uncertainty crossed his face. “I, ah, believe dinner will be starting soon. You should change.” He gestured towards the wardrobe. “I have unpacked your luggage and placed your clothing in there.”

He started to walk purposefully towards the door and Clara blinked a couple of times at the sudden movement. Warm tingles ran up her arm from where he brushed against her as he passed and she swallowed, having to stop herself reaching out to pull him back. She turned around to see him almost at the door.

“Are you not coming with me?”

The Count paused and his fist clenched and unclenched at his side as if he was caught between two options, finally sighing and relaxing his hand as he seemingly made a decision but refusing to look at her.

“I do not eat food and have an errand to run.”

Clara pushed down the disappointment. “Oh. Yes, I understand. I will…see you later.”

The Count nodded and flounced off without looking back.

Instead of dwelling on the dull feeling in her chest, Clara strode to the wardrobe and flung it open to find many of those beautiful dresses hung carefully. She tried to ignore the way her heart pounded and a smile threatened to break out on her face at the sight of his clothes hung next to hers. It was impossible; a surge of affection washed over her at the thought that he’d selflessly unpacked her things as well as his own, even though he hadn’t needed to and he must’ve been angry with her. It was considerate and left her touched.

Clara picked a random dress off the rack – a light blue one that was a slimmer fit with a lower neckline and showed more skin than she was used to but not enough to be inappropriate. She dressed quickly and, after a moment of deliberation, transferred the little bat brooch to her new dress before she sat on the small bed, waiting impatiently for the remaining time to pass before dinner was called. She was hungry. Clara couldn’t remember the last time she’d eaten or drank anything; so much had happened in a short space of time that food hadn’t crossed her mind. She must’ve eaten at some point seeing as she wasn’t a vampire and couldn’t survive without it, but it can’t have been anything substantial.

Clara’s thoughts naturally turned to the Count as she waited. She really didn’t know how to handle him. Sometimes he seemed like a sweet and generous person with compassion who she could grow to like, but others he was cruel with no hint of humanity who enjoyed hurting her. His mood was unpredictable so she was always unprepared for their conversations. Should she be nicer to him? Show him the kindness he’d occasionally shown her? Hope that if she was compliant and embraced him completely for all he was (probably something that was rare for him) he’d return the favour and treat her with respect and lenience? She’d rather them be on semi-friendly terms than live in fear of him.

Luckily the bell rang to announce dinner was ready before she could think on it any further and she was up and out the door within seconds. She glanced around as she strolled through the corridors, both admiring the ship and looking out for any other passengers on their way to dinner or the Count stalking around. The only people she saw were four crew members who all eyed her strangely.

She reached what she hoped was the dining room and found she was the first one there. The crew member finishing the set-up blinked a few times in surprise, probably at her enthusiasm, but didn’t say anything. Clara quickly scanned the room to locate the best seat and settled on one near the window. Doctor Sharma and his daughter had arrived shortly after, greeting her with tentative smiles as they made their way to their own table, and Lord Ruthven about ten minutes after that. He didn’t smile at her or acknowledge her in any way other than to run his eyes up and down her body critically. She couldn’t tell if it had been appreciative, lustful, or sizing up the competition.

Clara sighed and glanced back down at the menu. She wished she was a more decisive person but alas that was not the case.

“Countess Dracula.”

Clara startled and her head shot up to find the Grand Duchess standing proudly in front of her, an amused smile on her face.

Clara stood up immediately, holding out her hand for the duchess to shake. She wasn’t entirely sure if it was the correct way to greet a grand duchess but the only person she could ask was out running an ‘errand’ so it’d have to do.

“Clara, please.”

Thankfully, the Grand Duchess took her hand and grasped it.

“May I sit?”

Clara blinked a few times, surprised someone with such high status would want to sit with her, but her brain caught up quickly and she gestured to the seat across from her. “Of course, Your Grace.”

The Grand Duchess looked at her as is she was strange but gracefully dropped into the chair, manoeuvring her skirts to fall elegantly.

“I hope it’s not an imposition,” the Grand Duchess said, “You looked deep in thought and I hated to interrupt. It is just everyone else has a dining companion and I have always found good company for supper to make the experience far more enjoyable.”

Clara noted that the Grand Duchess had recognised that Lord Ruthven had a dining companion despite the fact he was sitting alone. Either she preferred to sit with Clara because she was a woman or she too had noticed the tension between the Lord and his manservant. ~~~~

“Well, I hope not to disappoint, Your Grace,” she said lightly, “I can’t make any promises though.”

The Grand Duchess gave her a genuine smile, “If I am to break etiquette and call you Clara, please call me Valeria.”

Clara felt her face heat in embarrassment at her social blunder and nodded.

“May I ask why you are alone, my dear? Is your husband not dining?”

Clara supposed it was odd for a higher-class husband not to join his wife for their evening meal, possibly to the extent that it demanded to be commented on, but there was something in the Grand Duchess’ eyes that suggested there was more to it; something hungry and curious. Probing.

“He has a very particular diet,” Clara responded carefully, “He may join us later.”

Clara didn’t mention the Count was more likely to eat her than the pot roast if he did turn up.

The Grand Duchess hummed and picked up the menu the crew member had silently placed in front of her, her eyes scanning it and a thoughtful frown appearing as she considered her options. Clara followed her cue and did the same, re-reading the words she had almost memorised.

“There is a surprising amount of choice for a ship of this status,” the Grand Duchess commented, “I have to say I am impressed. I did not expect much.”

Clara smiled and relaxed her shoulders, “Yes, I was overwhelmed by the choice also. I’m not used to such a lavish or varied selection; I was raised to appreciate what little I received, which was always simple but nourishing. Now I feel spoiled.” Clara paused, “I suppose I sound silly to a woman with such a status as yourself. This must be a meagre selection compared to what you are used to.”

“You would be surprised, my dear,” the Grand Duchess said, quietly enough Clara wasn’t convinced she was meant to have heard. The woman raised her voice a little, “You do not sound silly at all, in fact you sound like a very grounded young woman.” She reached forwards and rested her hand on top of Clara’s on the table, squeezing it gently, “Never take anything for granted. You never know when it will be snatched away from you and life can change in a heartbeat. Appreciate everything.”

That hit Clara harder than the Grand Duchess intended. Hadn’t she done exactly that? Taken the safety of her village and the convent for granted? Yearned to be elsewhere and lamented at the dullness of her life, not appreciating the warmth and sense of family her sisters provided? Now they were gone, murdered, torn to pieces, and she was alone; she’d got what she’d wanted – an eventful life and freedom from the convent – but at the cost of her family, her safety, and her home. Everything was gone within an hour, her life changed forever.

She didn’t know who she hated more for that: Dracula or herself.

Clara wasn’t allowed to dwell on it for very long. The Grand Duchess leaned back in her chair and started reading the menu yet again. The movement was casual, but Clara got the impression it was all a ruse. She wasn’t sure why, but she was convinced the Grand Duchess was fishing for information.

“Based on your statement I take it you married up?”

“Depends on what you mean by ‘marrying up,’” Clara mumbled. Yes, _technically_ if she was married to the Count she had married up in class, but she wouldn’t say the vampire was better or a catch in any other way.

The Grand Duchess’ lips twitched up in amusement.

“Arranged marriage?” She asked knowingly.

“You could say that.” _Definitely arranged without my input._

“They are not all bad, my dear,” the Grand Duchess reassured, “I myself had an arranged marriage and did not meet my husband until the week before my wedding. We ended up quite happy together. Fifty years of marriage before he passed, four children who are all over the world doing remarkable things now, a comfortable lifestyle. Extravagant parties, interesting friends, surrounded by beauty. I was very lucky and would not change a moment of it.”

For a moment Clara tried to imagine having that with the Count. The large house, the comfortable lifestyle, not having to worry about money or where your next meal was coming from, surrounded by fascinating people with captivating stories, never lacking excitement or something to do. Being in a life-long and happy marriage with a husband who loved and protected her and was not afraid to show it, with several dark-haired children running around who had the opportunity to be whoever they wanted to be. It was alluring, it was attractive, it was appealing, and for a second her heart ached with want.

But it was a lie.

The man in question wasn’t even alive. Death followed him everywhere and the idyllic image of the perfect life was spoiled by the blood and horror that permeated it. There would be no sunlight, no running around the garden in Springtime chasing children, no dinner parties where the guests weren’t on the menu. Just darkness, solitude, and being the victim of a cruel and manipulative man who could not take no for an answer.

_You don’t want it anyway. You do not want to be his wife, to be his property, to be_ anyone’s _property. Stop dwelling on it._

Clara smiled sadly, “It sounds like a dream.”

The Grand Duchess studied her expression, “You do not seem too enthusiastic about the prospect.”

Clara thought carefully about what to say. It was challenging seeing as she didn’t know what she was feeling herself.

“The life you described has never been something I desired. I’ve always despised the idea of becoming an upper-class housewife – a housewife at all really - and admittedly scorned those who want it. I’ve always wanted to be free and to be me, without judgement or being constrained to what society expects of me.”

“But?”

“But what you described does not sound entirely repulsive,” Clara admitted.

The Grand Duchess nodded in understanding, “And you feel conflicted about what you truly want.”

It was a simple statement, too simple to summarise the complexity of her feelings. She wanted freedom, to live a good life, and to be herself but she also wanted companionship, stability and love. Were they mutually exclusive? Could she have both or were they as incompatible as she believed?

_Stop!_

Clara shook her head, “It does not matter either way. My… _husband_ is not like the man you described your husband to be.” Nor was he a person Clara wanted to be with, but she couldn’t say that out loud. There would be repercussions. The Grand Duchess would judge her for such a statement and denounce her as ungrateful; Clara was admittedly ignorant on the rules of upper-class conversations, but even she knew telling someone ‘I do not wish to be with my husband’ would cause alarm, and she dreaded to think what the Count would do if he found out. He might laugh it off, knowing it was the truth, but he could be furious that she’d indicated their marriage was anything but happy. She could already see the simmering anger in his eyes whilst his expression remained jovial for their audience and his ire was not something she wished to evoke again.

Also a part of her didn’t want to hurt him. He might be undead and no longer human but all her interactions with him showed that he still felt very human emotions – anger, possessiveness, hurt, jealousy, glee – and nobody would like to hear they weren’t good enough. She may not want the Count, that didn’t mean nobody would.

At least she told herself she didn’t want to be with him. _She didn’t._ She refused.

“There’s still time,” the Grand Duchess continued, “Perhaps he will surprise you. Perhaps he is not the man you perceive him to be. You do not yet know him very well.”

There was a truth to that Clara didn’t want to acknowledge. She also didn’t want to acknowledge the few times she’d caught herself thinking she would actually like to know him better.

Embracing that idea of ignoring complicated issues and refusing to examine her feelings, Clara searched for a change of topic to lighten the mood. Her eyes feel on the Grand Duchess’ ostentatious ruby necklace.

“That’s a lovely necklace,” Clara commented, inwardly flinching at the inadequate description, “Is it a family heirloom?”

The Grand Duchess caressed the jewelled piece fondly, “My darling husband presented it to me as a gift on our thirtieth wedding anniversary. He said he chose it as it reminded him of our wedding night and the moment he fell in love with me; the two of us sitting side by side on a veranda overlooking the sea and watching as the blue sky melted into a glorious red as the sun set.” She sighed. “It is the small things like that I miss. Having someone who treasures the little moments, moments that would mean nothing to anyone but us, who knows me and whose gifts _mean_ something. Not the classic flowers and chocolates, tea and expensive clothes, but a flower from the garden where we first said ‘I love you’, a sea shell from where we holidayed in Cornwall, a doll that belonged to my grandmother he had restored.” She smiled. “He once fashioned a decorative sign from a plank of old wood. The wood was originally part of a rowboat we fell out of into a lake on an outing because he thought it was humorous and wanted to tease me. He was dumbfounded when I hung it above the mantle in our primary lounge for all our visitors to see.”

Clara’s eyes darted down to the little bat brooch she was still wearing proudly over her heart and fought down the blush that wanted to appear. Didn’t the Count buy her the brooch to tease her? And wasn’t she wearing it to watch him squirm?

The Grand Duchess visibly pulled herself out of her own memories and looked at Clara with embarrassment, “I am so sorry, my dear, I lost myself for a moment there. A lovely young woman such as yourself with her whole life ahead of her should not have to be subjected to the ramblings of an old woman.”

“No, no, it’s fine!” Clara reassured hurriedly, “I quite enjoy listening to people ramble.”

The Grand Duchess relaxed in her chair and leaned forward, her hands clasped under her chin, “Allow me to return the favour then. Tell me more about yourself. Feel free to ramble away.”

Clara opened her mouth to excitedly reply and then quickly shut it again. What could she say? Her life wasn’t that interesting, there was nothing special or unusual that had happened to her before her recent acquaintance with Dracula; no great romance, no great adventures, no great history. She couldn’t talk about her past like the Grand Duchess had, she certainly couldn’t talk about her present as the prisoner of a vampire, and although the Grand Duchess had said Clara had her whole life ahead of her, that was not guaranteed. She could quite easily die on this ship, probably would, so she could hardly talk about her future or her hopes and dreams.

Clara was luckily saved from answering.

“You.” A low voice boomed.

The Grand Duchess’ eyes fell on someone behind Clara and she frowned disapprovingly. Clara turned in her chair to see what had caused it to see Lord Ruthven’s friend – Adisa, Clara remembered the Captain mentioning earlier – pointing at the crew member acting as waiter with a look of disgust painted on his face.

“What is this muck?” Adisa demanded.

“Sir?”

“Take it back.” He held out the glass forcefully, tone commanding and demanding no argument. “It will not do.”

Clara frowned in annoyance. She couldn’t stand people who looked down on others, ordered them about as if they were nameless tools rather than human beings. Adisa had no right to be rude to a crew member who was just doing his job and had done nothing wrong. He hadn’t made the wine, only poured it, and couldn’t magically make it taste better so there was no use yelling at him. Personally, Clara had always found being polite to people was more lucrative; nobody wanted to help a person treating them like vermin.

The crew member glanced between Lord Ruthven and Adisa before focusing on the young Lord, “I’m sure we can find a better vintage for your master-”

“Not him, me.”

Ooh. Not good. The poor crew member’s eyes grew wide with alarm at the mistake he’d made and he looked half ready to bolt. Clara watched carefully to see Adisa’s reaction. If she had to stand up for the crew member she would but she didn’t want to cause an unnecessary scene. She was to be on the ship with these people for a month, she couldn’t afford to alienate them but she would also not tolerate bullies.

“I want only the finest,” Adisa said back. Clara relaxed and her opinion of Adisa improved a little. He wasn’t one to push too far then or attack people relentlessly for a social faux pas. That was good for Clara.

Clara went to turn back to her dining companion, deeming the drama over and Adisa mollified, but another voice entered the fray before she could.

“Then you’re on the wrong ship,” Doctor Sharma said. Out of the corner of her eye, Clara saw the Grand Duchess raise her menu until it was in line with her face and place her spectacles over it. Clara didn’t know whether she was avoiding the confrontation or she just didn’t think it was worth her time.

Everyone else’s attention had shifted to Sharma, who was sitting casually with his hands resting in his lap as if he hadn’t just rekindled the angry fire in Adisa, except his daughter whose eyes were observing the man and Lord Ruthven keenly.

“I am Doctor Sharma,” he introduced, the pride evident in his voice. Clara didn’t blame him, if she had that title she’d announce it to all she came across.

Adisa wasn’t as impressed, “Good for you.”

Lord Ruthven looked at Sharma with a carefully blank expression, but Clara saw how he grit his teeth and his back was ramrod straight. He was worried, annoyed, and angry at the doctor, with his body language practically screaming a warning that the wrong word towards his friend would result in trouble.

Sharma obviously sensed Adisa’s sarcasm and frosty attitude - not that he tried to hide it - as he broke eye contact, looking down at his soup bowl and straightening his cuffs. However, he soon returned his focus to the taller man and ploughed on regardless. Clara wondered if he was deliberately doing it to antagonise Adisa, to spite him for his dismissal at his introduction, or if he simply wanted to make conversation.

“Forgive me. Are you in this gentleman’s employ?”

Before Adisa could reply (something Clara was very interested in hearing) Lord Ruthven held up a finger to silence him. “He is my man.”

It was said almost defensively. Hurt flashed across Adisa’s expression and Clara felt a pang of pity for the man. It had to be tremendously difficult and painful to hide who you were from everyone and watch the person you loved declare his love for someone else. They could never admit their relationship publicly, never be a couple, and they both had to live with that.

Sharma hummed thoughtfully.

“He pays my wages. It is not the same thing.” Despite his words answering Sharma’s question, Adisa looked at Ruthven as he said them. It was obviously a sore subject between them, likely one that had arisen again and again with no firm conclusion. Adisa turned his back to Ruthven and walked off to the sidebar where the glasses of wine were placed, his shoulders hunched and his hands clenched into fists.

Clara knew pain when she saw it.

“Then you have settled a dispute,” Sharma said with a laugh. His full attention was then given to his daughter and he suddenly started waving his hands around rapidly in short, sharp little gestures.

Clara knew sign language and could communicate with it fluently. When she entered the convent she was given the option to learn and jumped at the chance. It was something new, something she’d be able to do that not everyone could, and also allowed her to help others who probably had received little understanding in their lives. Many people who visited were vulnerable: blind, deaf, physically injured, and generally rejected by society. Clara used her skill so they didn’t feel so alone and had someone who they could talk to, and of all the good deeds she’d participated in at the convent those were the ones she was proudest of.

Clara smirked at the quick conversation between the Sharmas now. Was Lady Ruthven the only person on the ship who was unaware of her husband’s proclivities?

The other passengers watched the two with questioning expressions on their faces. When Sharma noticed, he explained, “Deaf and Dumb.”

“Poor child,” Adisa said, unsurely.

“She has eyes though,” Sharma replied ominously. It almost sounded like a threat. “Oh yes.”

Clara could tell that already. The girl’s eyes were darting around the room, doubling back occasionally on something that had caught her attention. At the moment her gaze was flickering between Lord Ruthven and Adisa, a wisdom in her face unusual for someone so young. Clara made a note to be cautious when around the girl. It was unlikely she was dangerous, she was a child after all, but she _noticed_ things. She could easily discern a vampire feasting on the innocent passengers onboard, for instance, or a fraud marriage when others were blind to it.

Sharma’s comment seemed to be the cue for the conversation to end. Without a word, Adisa handed over his wine glass to the crew member and turned away, only to be called back by Lord Ruthven.

Clara couldn’t hear what they were saying as their voices had dropped to whispers, but the snatches of conversation she could hear made it clear Adisa was being reprimanded.

“…don’t cause a scene…necessary evil…”

“…It hurts.”

Clara decided to give them their privacy and returned to face the duchess again, a quick glance at the Sharmas showing her they had abandoned conversation with the other passengers too.

She wasn’t sure what to think of the father-daughter pair. They were intriguing certainly; an unusually observant and incredibly bright child and her undoubtedly intelligent doctor father couldn’t not be. Clara wondered what kind of doctor he was and if he had a speciality area. Was he a medical doctor? A professor? A scientist? Did he study anatomy, the mind, human nature? Whatever it was, Clara was sure it wouldn’t be dull and if she could convince him to open up prove enlightening.

And yes. She was curious about how he’d got his scar.

His attitude was a little…off, and she couldn’t get a read on him. The way he had seamlessly cut in with a biting remark suggested he was quick-witted but was it malicious or defensive? Did he say it because he wanted to irritate Adisa and enjoyed trouble, or for the same reason Clara was planning on interrupting – to stop Adisa attacking the crew member? Was he arrogant and proud and slightly creepy, or was that all a show? ~~~~

Whatever he was, one thing was clear: he loved his daughter. It practically radiated off him and his face softened whenever he looked at her. It didn’t need to be said that he’d do anything to protect her, and Clara was sure he’d had to numerous times. Being deaf and dumb left her vulnerable to snide and horrid comments and belittling behaviour.

Clara flicked a quick look over at the girl to find her watching Clara with curiosity.

Noticing nobody was looking at them, focused instead on their own conversations and food, Clara smiled at the girl and quickly signed something under the table so only she could see.

_‘Well, that was intense.’_

The girl’s eyes widened and a slow smile eased its way onto her face.

_‘Papa didn’t help,’_ she signed back tentatively.

_‘At least you got the answers to your questions. Didn’t you?’_

The girl nodded with a sly smile.

Doctor Sharma looked up, hands raised ready to say something to his child, and paused as he saw her practically beaming at Clara.

Clara grinned. ‘ _What’s your name?’_

_‘Yamini.’_

_‘Hello. My name is Clara.’_

“You know sign language?” Doctor Sharma blurted out, surprised.

The Grand Duchess looked up at the comment. Clara could feel her eyes boring into the side of her head but she kept her focus on the Sharmas.

Clara nodded. “Yes, it’s something I have studied over the years.”

Sharma looked between Yamini and Clara, “It is unusual to come across another who has learned the language. My daughter does not meet many people who can converse with her. I’m sure it is refreshing for her.”

Clara heard the unspoken question and turned to Yamini, ‘ _Would you like me to talk to you sometimes? At meals or maybe I could come visit your cabin?’_

Yamini nodded enthusiastically and Clara didn’t think her smile could get any bigger.

She heard Doctor Sharma’s intake of breath from where she was sitting, “You don’t have to. I’m sure you have things you would rather be doing.”

Clara could hear the want in his tone, seeing something that would make his daughter happy and wanting to grab hold of it but not wanting to impose.

“I’d be happy too,” Clara said emphatically.

Sharma was clearly relieved, but needed to make sure nothing would disappoint Yamini, “Will your husband not mind?”

Clara’s expression darkened. _If he does I’ll tell him where he can shove his objections._

“No.”

Sharma evidently heard the warning in her voice, “Very well, then. Feel free to come to our cabin any time you please, Countess.”

“Clara is fine, Doctor Sharma.” Honestly Clara was becoming tired of constantly urging people to use her name over a title.

Sharma smiled warmly at her this time, “Of course, Clara.” He looked at his daughter, _‘Clara would like to come visit us soon.’_

Yamini’s reply was so fast Clara almost missed it, _‘Will you come tomorrow?’_

_‘I would love too.’_

A snort sounded from over at Lord Ruthven’s table.

“Bet her husband is going to love that,” Lord Ruthven muttered to Adisa but loud enough everyone else could hear, “If my new wife decided she’d rather spend the voyage in another man’s cabin talking to his idiot daughter I’d be furious, and suspicious about her intentions. Perhaps that’s why he is not here. He does not want to be in the company of his flighty and obviously promiscuous young whore of a wife. I heard her earlier asking to speak with the men on board. Or perhaps he is so disgusted by her he does not want to consort with her for any more time than it takes to breed her as he is duty bound too, or she is not opening herself to him as _she_ is duty bound too. No man would miss dinner with his wife or avoid her unless there something wrong with her or him.”

Clara spun in her chair violently and held back a snarl as she glared daggers at the man. She didn’t know what expression was on her face but Lord Ruthven’s eyes widened and the crew member who had been pouring Adisa’s wine took a step back in alarm.

“Oh, really, Lord Ruthven?” Clara snapped, “And where is _your_ wife? Surely you’d rather be spending time with your lovely new bride and revelling in her affections than sitting here alone without the woman you love.” She pushed down the brief flash of guilt as she caught a glimpse of pain on Adisa’s face. “Or perhaps she doesn’t want to be in the company of her vain and neglectful husband? Perhaps she would rather spend her time alone in her cabin than with you? As you said, no man would miss dinner with his wife unless there was something wrong with her or him.” Clara tried to transform her expression from furious to something a little more sympathetic, “Of course, just because some people enjoy socialising with others and are not chained at the hip to their spouse, does not mean they are sexually engaging with others behind their back or are up to anything nefarious. They could be having innocent conversations and getting together with friends.” Her voice dropped and she finished lowly, “Unless you disagree.”

Lord Ruthven didn’t say anything. He was obviously not used to someone talking back to him or returning his insults as he just sat there and stared at Clara with his mouth open. Nobody else in the room spoke or even twitched, so she nodded in satisfaction.

“Oh, and just for the record, this man’s ‘idiot’ daughter has more brains than you.” Her eyes swivelled to the crew member before anyone worked up the courage to respond, “We’re ready to order now, Mr…”

“Abramoff,” he squeaked, rushing forwards to their table. Clara turned her back to the Lord and ignored the raised eyebrows of Doctor Sharma.

The Grand Duchess didn’t contradict her. Clara wondered if it was wordless support or whether she just hadn’t worked her way out of her shock yet.

“What can I get you, ma’am?” Abramoff said, his voice loud in the quiet room.

Clara didn’t look at the menu, just pointed at a random item and hoped for the best. Despite her indecisiveness earlier, she was now too agitated to care. She wasn’t fussy, she’d eat whatever they gave her.

“Good choice, ma’am,” Abramoff said before looking at the Grand Duchess in askance.

“I’ll need a little more time, I’m afraid,” the Grand Duchess admitted. Clara briefly panicked that this would cause everyone to laugh at her and that her grand dismissal would now seem petty. She guessed a friendship with Lord Ruthven was off the table now anyway but the other passengers she still hoped to form a relationship with. To her surprise, the Grand Duchess continued, “Countess Dracula has been here a little longer than I so had more time to pursue the impressive menu.”

The use of Clara’s title was deliberate. Either it was a subtle statement to Clara that her offer of friendship was rejected and they would be nothing but courteous to each other, or she was reminding the other passengers of Clara’s title and that she was to be respected. The light shaking of the Grand Duchess’ shoulders – laughter, Clara realised with a start – indicated it was the latter.

It was effective. As Abramoff nodded and borderline fled from the room, conversation picked up again. Doctor Sharma shot Clara an appreciative smile and began signing to Yamini, who was looking at him with questions brimming in her eyes, probably translating what had just happened. Lord Ruthven was glaring down at his fork as Adisa poured him a glass of wine and silently slid it in front of him, which Ruthven quickly drank. The Grand Duchess simply reached across the table and placed her hand atop Clara’s trembling ones, squeezing them in approval.

“Did I miss something?”

Clara felt a shiver run up her spine at the now familiar voice sounding from behind her. Instead of the fear she felt the last time they properly spoke, she felt nothing but warmth and relief this time.

She twisted her body and there the Count was in all his tall, dark and handsome glory, grinning down at them and looking very suave and sophisticated in his pristine suit. As his gaze fell on Clara, his grin widened and his eyes shined with glee.

And Clara knew just by that look that the Count had heard everything she’d just said.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Drop me a comment if you can, they really spur me on! And thanks to everyone who commented on the last chapter.

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks for reading! xxx


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